LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf ..'.was 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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mporte 






COPYRIGHTED BY THE AUTHOR, 
WALKER WHITESIDE, 



FOILED NOBILITY. 



A PLAY IN TWO ACTS. 



EUGENE ARAM 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



BY WALKER WHITESIDE. 



DENVER, COI.O. 

C. J: Kelly, Printer, 



T€)3;71 

PREFACE. 

I trust it is not presuming top niuch for one 
of my years to set this little volume afloat upon 
the sea of literature. 

I beg the generous indulgence of the readers 
for whatever faults may be found therein. 

V^ALKER WHITESIDE. 

Orchard Place, 

Denver, Colo., Feb. 28, 1888. 




H 



OILED NOBILITY 



CHARACTERS. 



C^ouNT La Touche. 

Lord Vinton. 

Clarence Stedman. 

Stephen Weston. 

Richard Weston, (Stephen's nephew). 

Mr. Dallas, (a poet). 

Mr. Murray. 

M. De Pugh, (a detective). 

Mrs. Marie Weston, (wife of Stephen Weston). 

Miss Annette Weston, (Mrs.W's step-daughter). 

Miss Grace Carlton. 

Miss Fairfield. 

Servants. 



COSTUrs/IKS. 

ACT FIRST. 

LORD VINTON Riding Hahit. 

ANNETTE. .Riding Habit and BkE.\KFA.sT Gown. 

MRS. W Breakfast Gown. 

MR. W Business Suit. 

RICH. AND CLAR Traveling Suits, 

ACT SECOND. 

All in Full Dress. 



polled j\lobiIity. 



ACT I. 

SCENE — A drawing-room in Stephen Weston's country home, in 
environs of Brooldyn. Large bay-window back, looking 
out into grounds ; large portiers half drawn ; door L. 3. E.; 
mirror over fire-place L.; large library table, chairs on each 
side L. small eastlake staircase up the stage R ; large 
divan in bay-window ; book cases ; screen in front of fire- 
place ; small table R., chairs on each side; books and 
papers and call-bell on library table. 

Enter Annette Weston followed by Lord Vinton. 

Annette. Thank you. [passes dotvn and 
stands looking into mirror. Lord Vinton passes 
dozvn stage to R). 

Lord Vinton. Miss Weston, you look flushed 
and charming after your darincj ride. You are 
positively 

A. Daring? {seats herself left of library 
table'). Why, Lord V^inton, I call that the 
jauntiest little ride I have had since my return 
from school. Daring ! You should have seen 
me flying across the fields, a few days ago, 
accompanied by Carl, dear fellow, and yielding 
all the rein to Prince, until he almost flew, and 
then, after the ride, oh ! what a color I had. I 
am really pale now to what I was then. 

L. V. Pardon me^ but who is this dear Mr. 
Carl ? 



6 FOILED NOBILITY. 

A. [Langliing heartily) — Jfr. Carl — Mr. — ah, 
pray excuse me, but it is so funny. 

L. V. {A?inoyed). What ? Who ? 

A. I arn very rude, I know, Lord Vinton, 
but Mr. Carl is our dog, [rises) and a large, 
noble fellow he is. You will pardon me while 
I exchange this cumbersome costume for one 
more becoming, {passes tip right to stairs; Lord 
Vinton crosses Z.) 

L. V. Pray do not. You can not improve, I 
assure you. 

A. You shall see. {Exit up stairzvay). 

L. V. Charming creature ! I hope I'm the 
first. Carl — ''our dog." I am glad he is a dog, 
and yet I am almost jealous of her affection even 
for him. Ah, she is positively divine ! That 
hand! — that fairy foot ! that — {Mr. Weston conies 
doivn stciirzvay). Confound it. 

Mr. Weston. Ah, good morning, Mr. Vinton. 
{Vinton bows). I should judge from your attire 
that you are making preparations for a morning 
ride, or that you had just returned from one. 
Which is it ? \_Conies dczvn front~\. 

L. V. Just returned, my dear sir, from a most 
delightful ride with Miss Weston. She has re- 
tired to her room for a few moments. Did you 
not meet her ? 

Mr. W. No. She is very fond of sport, and I 
am glad of it. So different from most young 
girls of her age, who would rather while away 
their vacation by lounging around and reading 
some novel. I have no doubt . the ride has 
sharpened your appetite, and you will better 
relish your breakfast. {Crosses to table l.) What 
do you think of the surrounding country ? Is it 
not beautiful ? {Taps bell). 



FOILED NOBILITY. 7 

L. V. {Crosses to R.) It is indeed, and a 
very charming spot for a young lady, like your 
daughter to spend her vacation. And the air is so 
refreshing. I believe I could eat everything 
set before a king. 

Mr. W. We cannot promise you quite so 
elaborate a spread, but what there is I can as- 
sure you will be well cooked. {Enter servant 
R. u. E.) Serve breakfast for three. Have you 
been to the mail ? 

Servant. Yes sir, there are three letters. 

Mr. W. You may bring them now. {exit s. l.) 
You know, Mr. Vinton, {sits r. of table.) I 
make it a practice to have a few of my letters 
addressed to my residence, so that I may read 
them before reaching my office, and thus save 
time. 

{Enter servant r. zviih letters and nezvspaper on 
waiter, conies dozvn to .air. weston, zvlio takes 
letters and paper. Exit servant r. u. e.) 

L. V. Quite convenient. Will not Mrs. Wes- 
ton breakfast with us ? 

Mr. W. {Looking over his mail). I am afraid 
not — no. She was suffering with a headache the 
greater part of the night, and I did not v/aken 
her this morning, feeling that a good rest would 
be of benefit to her. Would you like to look at 
the paper ? {Holding out paper). You will par- 
don me while I look over my mail. 

L. V. {Crossing to Him). Certainly. {Takes 
paper). Thanks. {Passes back to table r. and 
seats himself r of it; reads; after a pause, read- 
ing, and to himself). News from New York. 
Count La Touche is registered at the Bruns- 
wick. {Glancing up). The nobility will be well 
represented here soon. \^Aside\ 



8 FOILED NOniLITY. 

Mr. W. Ah ! this is good news, Mr. Vinton. 

L. V. So? 

Mr. W. My nephew and his comrade are 
coming sooner than I expected. Nevertheless, 
they are welcome. This will be a surprise to 
Annette. How long have you known Richard ? 

L. V. Oh, about two months. I first met 
him at his college, and again at a reception in 
Boston. I invited him to call on me, and he 
kindly accepted. We had a cigar, and a very in- 
teresting chat; attended a few operas, and before 
long had become very good friends. 

Mr. W. I am glad to hear it. '[Adoui to break 
open an envelope, but pauses. L. V. resumes read- 
ing\. Addressed to Marie. Doubtless some 
kind remembrance of a friend. \_Lays it on the 
table. Opens another letter and reads\ 

L. V. \Looking over Ids papers\. By George! 
I'll faint pretty soon if I don't see some signs 
of breakfast ! \Resumes reading. Antiette comes 
dozvn stairiuay, slips up behind her father, leans 
over and kisses him on the forehead~\. 

Annette. Did I frighten dear old papa? 
Oh ! letters, and not one for me? 

Mr. W. No, my dear; your school friends 
have quite forgotten you. 

A. \_Stamps her foot']. I want a letter. 

L. V. [From behind his paper\ I want my 
breakfast. [Aside. Rises\ Ah, Miss Weston, 
I must really surrender. You have improved 
wonderfully. [Servant announces breakfast]. 
Thank heaven! [Aside]. 

Mr. W. [Rises]. Now, Mr. Vinton, come. 
[Walks half 7ip the stage]. 

A. But, mamma ! 

Mr. W. She is not well, my dear. 



FOILED NOBILITY. 9 

A. Had I not better see her before eoine 
to breakfast ? 

Mr. W. No; she is sleeping, and it would 
not be the thing to disturb her. So, come. I 
am sure Mr. Vinton is nearly famished. 

L. V. \_WitJi a forced smile\ No, indeed, be- 
lieve me. \To Annette, and offering his arm~\. 
Miss Weston, allow me. \_Exit Mr. W. k v e.") 

A. To breakfast? Ah, \^ou are very gallant. 
\^Takes his arm; exe?ieni'\. 

[Mrs. W. conies down stairs, goes to the ivin- 
dotv and tJiroivs back the cnrtain^ 

Mrs. Weston. I must have the morning 
sun. \Sits on divan. After a panse\ How 
good it was of him to let me rest. How kind 
they all are. I feel sometimes that it will be 
impossible for me longer to resist the impulse to 
tell him all. And yet — and yet — Heaven help 
me, I am trying hard — trying to take a true 
mother's place — trying to be all that is expected 
from a wife and mother. \Jiises\ There must 
be mercy in this world for one like me. \^Conies 
dozvn to table l. Sees letter addressed to her. 
Picks it lip]. Some congratulations from a 
friend, perhaps. Why ! the envelope has been 
partially broken. Stephen. I suppose, must have 
done it by mistake. \^Starts violently]. Ah! — 
Ids handwriting. \_Breaks letter open nervously. 
Reads], " My dear Marie — It pains me much to 
" liave to disturb the placid life I have reason to 
"believe j'ou are now enjoying; but circum- 
" stances over which I have no control, as the 
" saying -goes, compel me to do so. I am aware 
" of the fact thafyou have married a very wealthy 
" widower, and that you have access to his cash 
" account. So much for this. Now, before 



lo FOILED NOBILITY. 

" coming to the point, I cannot refrain from ex- 
" tending my heartfelt congratulations to you on 
" your marriage to an lionest man, and one who 
" can surround you with the honest people for 
" whose society you always craved. 

" But now to business. I am sorely in need of 
" money, and I expect to be furnished the same 
" by you. You are to give a reception to-morrow 
" night. I am invited. Ycm understand. When I 
" arrive, be sure to treat me courteously and as 
" an old acquaintance. I will see you alone, and 
" you will then hand me what money I demand, 
" There will be no further trouble. I will de- 
" part with the rest of the guests, and on the fol- 
" lowing morning I shall sail for Europe. Do 
"not trifle with me, or I will openly declare. 
" whose wife you were before you married this 
" honest VL\-3,n, and became the mother of his inno- 
" cent daughter. 

" With many kisses, and hoping \-ou will 
"comply with my simple request, 

"I remain your divorced husband, 

"Count La Touche." 

"P. S. Have a good round .sum on hand for 
I will need it." {Sits). 

Oh, God ! is there no rest this side of the 
grave for me — will there be beyond ? Just as I 
feel the curtain of my sorrow has been lifted 
forever, it comes rushing down, veiling all my 
bright hopes in gloom ! Justice ! Heaven ! Ah, 
have I not borne enough alread\'? Must my 
dream of future happiness be blasted? No, no! 
It can't be ; it must not be. Courage, Marie! 
You must not give way so easily. You need your 
strength. You must go now, aye, at once, and 
tell all. Throw yourself on the mercy, the hu- 



FOILED NOBILITY. ii 

manity, the justice of your trusting husband. 
Let him decide whether you remain here longer, 
or depart in shame ! {rises). 

If I remain, cannot he silence this — scoundrel. 
But stay, did he not say he .would depart for 
Europe the next morning ? {Reads letter). Yes, 
but alas, I have learned long ago to put no trust 
in his word. Perhaps he has gotten into trouble, 
and being pursued, seeks to elude his followers 
by • going abroad. If I gave him what he 
he asks, or rather demands, would it not be as 
well ? Could I, by revealing my past 'relations 
with this man to my husband, feel, in the future, 
when my eyes shouldmeet his, that he loved me, 
as I do now ? Suppose he should coldly tell me 
to go. Oh! God! I could not bear the humil- 
iation. I can see no other way than to yield to 
this fiend. He will come, I will give him what 
he demands. He will leave America, probably, 
never to return. And then Stephen and An- 
nette will be none the wiser, and I would still 
abide in my happy home, with them. 

[ Voices heard zvithojit, l. servant enters and 
Jiands tzvo cards to Mrs. W\ \Reads^ "Richard 
Weston, Clarence Stedman." Show them in, 
\Exit S. L. u. E. Mrs. W. hurriedly slips letter in 
her pocket']. Stephen's nephew and his friend. 
He did not expect them so soon. How do I 
look. \_Goes to iniri'or\ How pale I am. 
\_Drazvs her handkerchief from her pocket, as she 
does so, the letter is draivn out and falls oji the 
floor']. Calm yourself Marie, you must appear 
delighted in spite of the inward storm. 

\Enter servant, showing in Richard ajid 
Clarence l. u. e. Servant boivs and exits. 



12 FOILED NOBILITY. 

Richard advances and takes mrs. w. by the hand. 
Clarence stands a sJiort distance behitid Iiini,^ 

Richard. Aunt, for I shall call you so, and 
gladly too, you did not expect us so soon, I 
know, but we could not wait and so hurried 
over to surprise you all. \_Tnrns to c] Mr. 
Stedman, tny aunt, Mrs. Weston. 

C. S. [Taking her hand\ I am happy to 
know you, Mrs. Weston. Richard has 
spoken of you quite often to nie, 
and, if I am not mistaken, read. me some letters 
from his uncle. Eh, Richard ? 

R. Yes, indeed, and your name occurs in 
them frequently aunt, I am certain uncle is get- 
ting the young lovers fervor back again. 

Mrs. W. I am delighted to see you both, and, 
notwithsanding the surprise, everything is in 
readiness for you. 

R. That is very good of you. \_Crosscs r.] 

Mrs. W. I trust you both are very happy at 
graduating with such high honors. By the way, 
we have a guest — a lord, yes indeed, a Lord 
Vinton, who arrived last evening. Your Uncle, 
Annette and he are at breakfast. 

R. Oh, yes, Lord Vinton is a personal friend 
of mine, and knowing that he was coming to 
Brooklyn, I asked him to call and see uncle, at 
his office, to whom I wrote in the meantime, 
asking him to extend Lord Vinton an invitation 
to accompany him here. He is very good com- 
pany. Do you not find him so? 

Mrs. W. I have seen very little of him as yet. 
Retiring at an early hour last evening, slightly 
indisposed, I slept rather late this morning, and 
did not feel as if I cared for breakfast, so I did not 
come down until shortly before you arrived. I 



FOILED NOBILITY. 13 

know Mr. Stedmaii and yourself must be tired. 
If you would like to retire for a iew moments, I 
will have James show you to your rooms. 
\_Voices heard without r.] Hark! The)^ are 
coming from the dining room. You had better 
stay and surprise them. 

R. The very thing, where can we conceal 
ourselves. 

Mrs. W. Step behind the portiers here, and I 
will close them. [Richard and Clarence go up 
the stage and step in the bay zvindow ; mrs. w. 
draivs portiers, and comes dozvn stage and seats 
herself -L. Enter Annette, follozved by mr. w. 
and L. V. talking earnestly ; annette comes dozvn 

to MRS. W.J 

A. Are you not feeling well, mamma? 

Mrs. W. [Taking A. by the hand']. Much 
better now my dear. The longer one indisposed 
lies abed, the worse one feels, and so I have got- 
ten up 

A. But, will you not eat something? 

Mrs. W. I will wait till luncheon, dear. 

L. V. [Seeing mrs. w. goes to her and prof- 
fers his hand]. Ah ! Good morning, Mrs. 
Weston. I was afraid you were going to have a 
serious attack ; glad to see you looking so bright. 

A. [Rises and crosses r.] [Aside.] I don't 
like that man. He smiles and talks too much. 
[Busies Jierself about the room ; Air. W. meantime 
IS looking about table l.] 

Mrs. W. [Taking L. Vs. hand]. Thank 
you, I am much better, now. [Rises and 
crosses L.] 

Mr. W. [jAdvajices to center]. I see, my dear, 
you have found }'our letter. [Mrs. W. shudders, 
but quickly composes herself]. Good news. Eh ? 



14 FOILED NOBILITY. 

Mrs. W. [AfUr a sliglit pause]. Yes. [Z. 
V. smiles complacently ; noise in windozu]. 

A. \_Sta!'ting~\. What was that ? [^Rnshcs to 
the windozv, b?it witJidrazvs in afyight\ It's a 
man ! 

\ Voice from behind cju'tain']. It's two. 

Mr. W. Whose there ? 

R. 'Tis I. \_Ad7>ancing'\. 

C. \Follo%vi)ig Jnni\. And I. 

A. \_R?{shing to both of them']. Oh ! you 
Gfood-for-nothing dear fellows. VVhat a surprie. 
\_Both try to kiss her at once]. 

C. I'm first ! 

R. \_Pnts him aside]. Tut, tut, Fni first. Be- 
sides it won't be long before you'll have your fill. 
\_Kisses her]. 

C. \pecidcdly]. Nev^er. 

Mr. W. Come, come, how is this ? You 
rogues, we did not expect you until next week ; 
then }'ou wrote me you would be here to mor- 
row. \JSoth C. and R. advance laugliing]. And 
you arrive scarcely a half an hour after your let- 
ter. \Lord Vinton is leaning on the mantel l., 
not noticing the rest]. 

R. Well, you see uncle, just a little surprise. 

A. A little surprise ! I should call it a very 
large one. 

C. Agreeable? 

A. Oh! More than that. 

Mr. W. Ah ! Marie I am afraid you had a 
hand in hiding them. 

Mrs. W. I confess I did. [Turning to R. and 
lozv tone to him]. Richard j-ou have not noticed 
Lord Vinton. \^A. and C. converse apart and up 
stage ; Mr. Weston lights a cigar]. 

R. \_Coming doivnto L. V] Ah, ha, old boy, 



FOILED NOBILITY. 15 

I am glad to see you. You must pardon me, 
but family affairs — you understand, and I did not 
notice you before. \Botii shake hands']. 

L. V. No excuses are needed, my dear fel- 
low I am delighted to see you. Charming spot 
this? 

R. I hope )^ou are enjoying yourself Allow 
me to present my friend, Mr. Stedman. \_T71r7is 
to Cliirei!cc\. Clarence, tear }'our self away a 
moment I would speak to you. [C bows to A. 
tJien comes dozvn to R7] 

L. V. \Froivning\ Stedman ! The devil ! 
\^Asidt\ 

R. Lord Vinton, Mr. Stedman. \L. V. turns 
to tJicni ; C. starts. 

C. Pleased to \nc&t yow Lord Vinton. \_They 
sJiake hands ; R. goes up stage a?id talks to A. 
and Mr. Mrs. W.] 

L. V. [^Draw/i/ig']. Thanks, thanks. [_/yozi>s, 
C. looks at him, as lie does so, intensely ; L V. 
straigtJiens up ; C. crosses to l.] He doesn't 
recognize me, thank heaven ! 

Mr. W. \^Comes down the stage to table l., and 
opens a box of cigars]. Mr. Vinton and Clarence, 
come try one of these cigars. I find them very 
good. Richard — Richard. \RicJiard turns]. 
Will you join us? \_Holding up a cigar, L. V. 
and C. advance to table ; each take a cigar]. 

Rich. Thanks, uncle, I do not smoke- 
\_Resu7nes talking to A. and Mrs. W. L. V. 
lights his cigar. C. places his in his pocket]. 

Mr. W. By the way, have you had some- 
thing to eat ? 

Clar. Oh, yes ; in the city, before you were 
out of bed. We freshened up after our dust)' 



1 6 FOILED NOBILITY. 

travel, so that we could come right in and have a 
good talk without bothering you. 

Mr. W. You were very considerate, indeed. 
But now, you know\ business is business, and I 
must hurry to my office. I am quite late now. 
T shall see you at dinner this evening. Mr. Vin- 
ton, would you care to go to the city ? 

L. V. Thanks, no, my dear sir; this is such a 
charming spot I am loth to leave it. 

Mr. W. I am pleased to think you like it. 
When you feel inclined, take a stroll over the 
grounds. \^Goes to door u. l.] 

L. V. With pleasure. \Bozvs\ 

Mrs. W. \_to Mr. W?^ I will accompany you a 
short distance in the carriage and walk home. 
I feel that fresh air and exercise will do me good. 
Besides the young folks would rather be alone. 
You will excuse me, will you not ? \Goes to Mr. 
W.] 

L. V. Certainly. 

C. Hope you will feel better. 

A. [C^rj- to Mrs. W. and kisses her, and then 
kisses Mr. W.] 

C. [IVa/ching- her~\. Humph! seems I am 
to be the last instead of the first. 

A. Good-bye, papa. Don't forget to see 
about the i-oses. 

Mr. W. Trust me for that. \_Exeiint Mr. and 
Mrs. IV. L. u. E.] 

A. Oh, Clarence, we are going to have a 
few young ladies and gentlemen here from the 
city to-morrow evening, and you must both be 
here. I>ord Vinton, also. [L. V. zuho has been 
talkins^ to R. turns to A.'] 

L. V. Thanks; I shall be delighted. [R. 
walks up to Ann. and Gar. L. V. zvalks to nnr- 



FOILED NOBILITY. 17 

roi'\. Now for the letter. It's strange not one of 
tliem caught sight of it. [^He glances around, 
iJien stoops and picks tip the letter. Sits l. of table 
and down loiv in chair. Reads~\. 

C. Ah, Annette, I must show you some- 
thing I have for you. \^Goes to a small package 
remaining on chair up stage l.] 

A. Oh ! what is it ? 

C. Wait a moment. \_Ann. and Rich, converse 
apaft. Enter Mrs. W. l. u. e. agitated. She goes 
hurriedly to Clar^ 

Mr5. W. Mr. Stedman, I have left a letter in 
this room ; where, I do not know. Would you 
kindly search for it, and if you find it, please 
preserve it for me till I return. My husband is 
waiting for me. I shall excuse myself to him 
and come back immediately. Let no one see it. 
A little surprise, you know. [Exit L. U. E.] 

A. Mamma ! 

R. She is gone. What was it Clarence ? 

C. She has left a letter and would like to 
have me find it for her. Come, Richard, you 
open this package for Annette. \Richard and 
Annette both go to the package^ 

A. Oh, how slow you are. Let me take it. 

R. Patience, patience. 

\_Clar. appears to search around the room; comes 
suddenly up behind L. V., looks over his shoulders, 
appears satisfied. Vinton has not noticed the con- 
versation preceding?^ 

C. [Suddenly, and in a loiv but intense voice\ 
Lord Vinton ? \L. V. starts to his feet\ Whose 
letter is that ? [pointing to letter^ 

L. V^ By what right do you ask ? 

C. Because I do not believe it belongs to you. 
It is Mrs. Weston's letter. 



1 8 FOILED NOBILITY. 

L. V. 'Tis mine. 

C. Seyton Rogers, 3-011 lie ! Give it to me, or 
I will denounce you before all. 

L. V. You dare not do it. 

C. \_Snatches letter from hivi\. You shall see. 

L. V. You know me ! Read that letter and 
denounce me, if you dare ! \^Ciar. starts; 
L. V. puffs at Ids cigar. Annettee and Rich, 
at back of stage, in window. She is holding 
small box in her hand, ivith lid open. R. bends 
over, looking in box. Mrs. W. appears"^. 

TABLEAU. 

CURTAIN. 

End of Act I. 



Position of Characters at fall of Curtain. 
Annette. 
Rich. Mrs. W. 

Clar. 

L. V. 



ACT II. 

« 

SCENE— Parlors in Stephen Weston's house decorated with 
roses, tete-a-tete cliair R.; divan l.; large mirror R.; archway 
up R., leading to veranda; door leading into library U. L.; 
large folding doors back of stage open ; mantel L. 

Mr. W., Mrs. W., l., A., C, r., R., Miss Carlton, 

Miss Fair., Mr. Dallas, Mr. Murry and guests 

discovered. Mr. Murry is walking down c; 

bowing, he crosses toi.. Murmurs\of'' Splendid ! 

bravo ! " \_Laughing\ 

Miss Fair. Now, Mr. Dallas, we call on you. 
{Murmurs of ''yes!' D. rises and boivs). 

Mr. D.. Oh, excuse me, I'm not prepared. 
{Pompously^. 

Mr. W. Come, come, Mr. Dallas, no excuse. 
We all know that a gentleman, like yourself, has 
alwa^'s something read3^ 

Mr. D. Mr. Weston, I iDeg — {But shozving ill- 
disguised anxiety to proceed^ 

Mr. W. Nay, I insist. 

Mr. D. Well, since you will have it so [Goes 
up stage), I will \'ield to your kind solicitations, 
(u.' c.) What shall it be ? [Clearing his throat). 

A. Something original, of course. 

Mr. D. [Bombastically). 
I dreamed a dream, a harrowing dream it was, 
Freighted with more wild forms than dream had 

been 



I'o FOILED NOBILITY. 

Before. 'Twas of the universe and my home^ 

the moon. 
Deserted; left to myself to feel its high towering- 
Grandeur. Here is a cavern, far reaching to its- 
bowels ; 
Trees petrified to moonish stones ; and here 
A bristling mountain's mouth, open though in 

death. 
Stopped is its smoky breath, if ever that, it had. 
Methinks I see, midst these shadows lounging, 
Conspirators and lovers of moonish ages past, 
Plotting wrong and telling lovers' vows. 
Here lie fallen pillars of some ancient town, 
By creeping age joined to the lifeless soil. 
Silence reigns o'er all ; not e'en the restless 
Ocean's wave, breaking on its whitish shores, 
Sounds on my hearkening ear; nor bird, nor 

snake. 
Nor beast break the placid air that hangs 
About this blasted orb. Vastness, ruin, age 
And desolation all seem seated on thy rigid 

rocks. 
And all the beauties that thou hadst of old 
Are now unfashioned by the hand of God. 
What golden light gilds now thy mountain's 

peaks ? * 

Now dancing down their sloping rocky sides, 
Stretching a gleaming cloth across the fields. 
Now in his glory rises the god of light and day ! 
Shedding on thy adamant, reflecting stones 
Ks incandescent, glaring, blinding rays. 
Now dies the day, and one by one the stars 
Steal out, blossoming, like flowers, upon the 

dusk, 
And in the calm deep heavens, with well befitting 

glory— 



FOILED NOBILITY. . 21 

Wearing a bejevveled and golden champion belt. 
In splendor rears its head a blazing planet ! 
And all the beams these fiery orbs are shedding 
Fall on this lonely globe, peopling it with stony 
Giants, who, from their yawning tombs, arise 
Majestic, and so stand beneath the sparkling 
Drapery of night ! 

Oh, God ! what tumult in 
The iieavens now begins ! 'Tis the tragedy of 

worlds ! 
Torn from their azure seats and onward hurled 
Against each other, crashing with more deafen- 
ing noise 
Than e'er had thunderbolts forged thrice-hard 
By Vulcan. New planets now, and bright, arise. 
Pushing, with mighty strength, their wa\' 

amongst 
This crashing ruin, brushing the silver dust 
From off their sides. \_Appla7tse. T>. pauses, ac- 
knowledges compliments and proceeds^ Some 
worlds now burst 
Filling the sulphurous air with things of might, 

aflame. 
While others shrivel up, squeezing out and drip- 
ping. 
Drop by drop, their blazing life-blood, as they 

pursue 
Their way, all pathless, through the sk}/' red-lit- 

ten. 
Now speed a\ong, fanning my fear-blanched 

cheek 
Like some monster eagle, flapping the summer 

air, 
That hangs about the limed and frightened birds, 
Some charred, rough, jagged and demolished 

balls. 



22 . FOILED NOBILITY. 

On, on they rush — then opens wide the heavens, 
Reveahng, encircled by a golden ring of light, 
A majestic throne, on which is seated the 

Creator 
Of these flashing stars, with frowning look and 
Potent, seeming to say, " 'Tis time." But now 
The planets' war has ceased, and through the 

bright 
Porta! of heaven roll silently, and fearful of 
Their coming fate, hke some baffled felon 
Crouching in a court of justice, till at last they 
Are relentlessly chained to the throne of God : — 
That supernatural dream, imbued with all the 
Harrowing forms that dreams are "heir to," 

haunts 
Me while awake. And at the rolling of night's 
Sable curtain down I fear me much to sleep. 
Else with that sleeping come dreams in aspect . 
Far more terrible, ruffling my needful rest. 

\^Dallas bozvs, retires to archway r., follozued by 
Miss Fairfield. Applause. All exclaini\ "Splen- 
did ! Wonderful !" etc 

C. {To all except Dal., ivJio is conversing 
with Miss F.,\]. k.) Isn't it remarkable what an 
attachment poets have for the moon. The 
cold, sad and mystic moon. [All laugh). 

R. ( With a signifiicant look at C. and A.) And 
lovers also. {LaugJdng coiitiimed). 

Mr. W. You might have added lunatics, as 
they belong to the same category with lovers. 
Eh, Richard ? {Folding doors back of stage are 
thrown open. March music. All rise). 

A. {Taking C!s arm and looking over her 
shoulder as she is passing out). So you have been 
twice a lun.itic, have you, paj)a ? {All laugh). 



F(.)ILEJJ XUBILITV. 23 

Mr. W. {With a slight shrug). I confess I 
have. But mind, a very lucky one. 

Mr. Murry. {To Mrs. IV. and offering liis oj-in). 
Would you be so kind, Mrs. Weston. 

Mrs. W. [Taking his arm). ThcUik you. 
{Exeunt all into room back, the doors arc closed 
after; but Mr. W., zvho passes into library, and 
Miss F. and Mr. D., zvho remain standing in arch- 
way K.) 

Mi?s F. \Fanning herself^ Dreadfuil)' warm 
in here. Do you not find it so? 

Mr. D. It is so, indeed. Suppose we stroll out- 
side, Miss Fairfield^? 'Tis a golden night ; full of 
the beauties we poets enjoy. See how the sleeping 
flowers and all around are bathed in the golden 
light of the n)3-stic moon. Ah! Miss Fairfield, 
on such a night as this, clothed in such celestial 
robes of more than beauty, the guests should re- 
pair to the lawn. 

Miss F. \_Aside'\. How romantic he is. 

Mr. D.— 
When soft fell the eve's sable curtain, 

Bediamonded with stars glistening bright, 
I'd seek me a place on a mountain 

And there note the beauties of night. 

Miss F. \^Aside']. How lovely he is ! Who 
is the author, Mr. Dallas? 

Mr. D. It is my crime. Miss Fai^-field. 
\^Prondlj'^. 

Miss F. Would you mind repeating it? 

Mr. D. Do- you like — crime — so well ? 

Miss F. A poet's, yes. 

Mr. D. When soft fell the— [77^^^/ pass out. 
Enter Count La Tonclie, follozved by L. V. from 
library; the doors are closed after thevi\. 

C. L. • \_Advancing to center\ Now, Rogers; 



24 FOILED NOBILITY. 

I received your letter apprising me of the amount 
of money at her disposal. I took advantage of 
the good news, invited myself to the reception, 
and here I am. I have not had the pleasure of 
seeing Marie's sweet face as yet. Tell me, does 
she appear at all nervous ? \^Sits in tetc-a-tete 
chair k. facing audience^. 

L. V. \po%vn stage, l.] Sometimes. I have 
not seen much of her. 

C. L. How did you manage to be invited 
here ? 

• L. V. Very easily, I assure you. I was in- 
vited by the old gentleman, to whom I received 
a letter of introduction from his nephew. 

C. L. Where did you become acquainted with 
him ? 

L. V. His nephew ? {Coiuit nods, V. crosses 
over to him and sits at his side, with his back to 
the andience). Well, you see, you told me where 
he was attending college, and I immediately set 
out for that place with a friend of mine. We 
saw the young man, for I recognized him from 
your description, lounging with some other 
students under a tree on the college grounds. 
My cigar had gone out in the meantime, and I 
carelessl)^ strolled over to w:here he was; asked 
liini if he could accommodate me with a match. 
He did so; I managed to draw him into con- 
versation. He pointed out the principal features 
of the sui'rounding countr}'', and requested my- 
self and friend to attend a polo matcli that after- 
noon ; which we did. After that was finished, I 
asked him to call on me when next in Boston ; 
gave him my address, and it was not long before 
he took advantage of the invitation. He became a 
very good friend, and the rest I have told you. 



FOILED NOBILITY. 25 

But now to business. How much am I to get 
out of this little game. Eh, Count? 

C. L. You have been faithful, and played 
your hand well ; and I intend givmg you a good 
round sum. Trust me for that. 

L. V. You have never failed me yet ; and I 
will. {Rises and goes to niirvor. Aside). But 
not out of sight. 

C. L. (Aside). Yes. A good, round, sum, 
of — nothing. You credulous fool. 

L. V. [Ho/ding a photograph in Ids hand 
and approaching C. L.) Now gaze on this face, 
and know it's that of the step-daughter of your, 
" Dear Marie," as you style her. 

C. L. {Starting to his feet). Where did you 
see my letter ? 

L. V. Quite by accident, indeed. She must 
have carelessly let it fall, and I, unobserved, 
made so bold as to read it. 

C. L. Where is it ? Is it still in your pos- 
session ? 

L. V. {Faltering^. No, I tore it up, and af- 
terwards burned the pieces. 

C. L. {Composing himself). Good. Good. 
I shall increase your share for that. {Taking 
picture). I have met her. {Looks at it). She is 
very pretty. 

L. V. Pretty! I call her charming. 

C. L. {Hands pictnre to him). Bah ! that has 
always been your weakness, Rogers, to fall in 
love with some woman. Copy me, my boy, copy 
me, and you will always come out a winner. I 
cultivate the weaker sex only for what money I 
can wring from them. And I never failed yet to 
accomplish what I set out to do. Copy me, 
copy me. {Crosses l.) 



26 FOILED NOBILITY. 

L. V. Thanks. I rather clioose to be 
original. 

C. L. As you please then. {Servant enters ; 
passes into library ; as door is opened men are 
seen playing cards, and laughing). I am glad 
they are enjoying themselves in there; as for me, 
I'm here for business, {l^o L. V.) Hark! you. 
Rogers ; when Marie comes, you go outside, or 
anywhere, and leave me here with her. Why 
tne devil don't she put in an appearance. 

L. V. You do not resort to hints, do you? - 

C. L. Not with you, and I hope you won't 
with me. \_Enter Mr. Weston from library. 
Conies down cj. 

Mr. W. Ah, gentlemen — having a social 
chat? I own it is rather warm in the library, 
but when one becomes interested in an exciting 
game of cards one does not notice the heat. 

C. L. As I depart to-morrow for abroad, I 
have been questioning Lord Vinton as to the 
most interesting points for me to visit while in 
England. 

Mr. W. Do I interrupt? 

C. L. Not in the least, my dear sir — not in 
the least. How is the game progressing? 

Mr. W. I am very sorry to sa)^ your substi- 
tute is losing. 

C. L. \Asidc\ That's bad. I must lose 
nothing to-night, either by proxy or otherwise. 

Mr. W. Mr. Melburn and Mr. Clayton had 
quite a heated discussion [servant enters room; 
back, couples seen dancing; waits music ;'\ over pol- 
itics. They are good friends now, thanks to 
myself 

L. V. You know that is something I never 



FOILED NOBILITY. 27 

discuss — especially at such a delightfyl gather- 
ing as you have here to-night. 

Mr. W. Quite right. Come; let us go out on 
the veranda, where the air is refreshing, and 
have a good story or two. 

Both L. V. and C. L. With pleasure. [Ex- 
eunt RUE. Enter Annette and Clarence 
through c doors, wliicli are closed after tJuvi; An- 
nette fanidng ]ierself\. 

A. I am completel}^ exhausted. \Sits l.] 

C. So soon ? Oh, you must not yield yet. 
There are two hours yet ere j^our guests depart. 
[ Crosses R to nirror, adjusting his tie~\. 

A. S^Looking at hint]. Vanity, thy name is 
man! Now, that's the third time to-night you 
have made an excuse to view yourself in the 
mirror. 

C. This confounded tie has such an ambition 
to rise — in society. \^Jerks at ii~\. Oh, what a 
bother. 

A. Can't I assist ? You'll lose 3/our pa- 
tience in a moment. 

C. You may save the loss, my dear. \_Crosses 
to Iter and sits r of licr on divan~\. 

A. Now, how in the world do you expect 
me to better your appearance when you hold 
your head like that? Raise it up; up. 

C. \_Holding Ids head very JiigJi\. Ready? 

A \Giving a last toucJi to the tie~\. Yes. 

C. \_Kisses her suddeidy. She makes a gesture as 
if to speak and reproach hini\. Tut, tut! there's 
no one present but ourselves, and it's the first 
to-night. I could not resist the opportunity. 

A. That's different. Oh, do you know there 
is a Count here to-night ? I was introduced to 
him by Mr. Murry. [Clar. starts']. He has 



28 FOILED NOBILITY. 

such easy manners, and his conversation, brief 
as it was, became very interesting. 

C. \_As!de'\. He has kept his word and is 
here. {^To A.'\ How does he look? 

A. He is extremely dignified, handsome and 
gallant. O, you would know him to be a for- 
eigner immediately. 

C. Very slight opinion you have of your 
own countrymen. \Laug]iiiig^ heard on veranda^ 

A. Who is out there ? See. 

C. \\Valking to door u. R.] Sounds like your 
father's voice. \Looks out, then comes back to 
A7\ Your father, Lord Vinton, and from your 
flattering description, I should judge, the Count. 
\_Co2int heard talking]. 

A. Yes, that's his voice. But come, I must 
return, or the guests will think me rude. [^Kises. 
Enter R. through center doors, holding his hand- 
kerchief in his Jiand and la2tg]iing\ 

R. Ah! ha! {To A.] You said that old 
maid, Miss Chauncy, had such a beautiful color 
in her face. 

A. Well, she has. {After a pause]. What 
pleases you ? Don't you think so? 

R. Only on one side now, cousin. Instead of 
/;/ her face, you should have said 07i her face. 

A. Why ! What do you mean ? 

R. [Opening handkerchief ; as lie does so a 
large red spot appears on it\. Behold and shud- 
der. 

A. {With surprise]. Why, it's rouge. 

R. {Laughing). You don't mean it ! I 
thought she had such a lovely color in her face. 

C. {Crosses r. singing low). " Things are sel- 
dom what they seem." 

A. How did you discover this ? 



FOILED NOBILITY. 29 

R. {Sifs L.) We were standincr near the 
window ; she had been pursuing me all evening 
h'ke a bird of prey, silently and ready at an\' 
moment to swoop down on me. I eluded her 
whenever an opportunity presented itself to do 
so. But she at last captured me, mind I do not 
say captivated me; and I said to myself, now 
old girl — 

A. Eh! What? 

R. Well, maj'be I didn't say that, but what's 
the odds. I'm going to see if that lovely color's 
genuine, and I told her there was a slight speck- 
on her face, and offered to brush it off. She 
consented. I did. She looked, saw, and 
• disappeared rapidly. Thank heaven she'll not 
trouble me again. [All laitgh). 

A. I think that's awful. {C. viotions R. to 
leave them). 

R. {Rises). That's all right eld boy, I'm 
going, but I wanted to tell you this. I say, 
Annette, will this vermilion come out? 

A. I think it has come out. Poor Mis^ 
Cliauncy, I suppose she is half way home b)' 
this time, or perhaps her blushes are a fair sub- 
stitute for her rouge. 

R. Pshaw I don't believe she has blood 
enough to blush. [7?. walks up stage. As he 
does so the c. doors are thrown open. Enter Grace 
Carlton and Mr. Mnrry'\. 

Mr. M. \_Advancing\. Miss Weston, we arc 
making ready for a new dance, and can't allow 
you to be absent. Will you take my arm ? 
\Offering Ids arvi\. 

A. \Takes his arni.~\ With pleasure. [77y';' 
zualk np stage\ 



30 FOILED NOBILITY. 

R. Miss Carlton allow me, \_Offcring his 
arm\ 

G. C. In just a moment,. Mr. Weston, you 
will pardon me, but my glove has become 
unbuttoned ; would you mind buttoning it? 

R. Not in the least. \Procecds to assist her. 
Dance -music; ladies and gentlemen seen passing 
to and fro in room back\ I am very slow. 

A. \_Turnir,g to G. and R^ Are you not 
coming, Grace ? 

G. C. In just a moment. Run along. \_Exennt 
A. andM:] 

R. There, you are released. 

G. C. Thank you very much. [Takes R.'s 
arvi\. Are you not coming, Mr. Stedman? 

C. Thanks, no. I shall stroll outside and get 
a breath of fresh air; it is so very warm in there 
[/?. and G. bow vnd pass out\ The Count would 
see Mrs. Weston alone. Me shall do so. A.s 
for me — well, I shall be no great distance away 
at the time of their meeting. If she succumbs 
to his threats, and gives him what he demands, 
she will be as guilty as I have reason to believe 
he is. If she defies and denounces him, she will 
prove herself to be the good and noble woman 
that her husband claims her to be. But. above 
all, wliat transpires must needs be kept secret 
from Annette. Bless her I her sweet soul must 
not be visited by a wave of sorrow. [Laughing 
heard on the veranda~\. He appears to feel con- 
fident of success. [Crosses i^7\ This Rogers, or 
rather Lor-d Vinton, as he calls himself, is here 
for no good. I must keep a falcon's eye on both 
him and the Count, in fact. Is it not likely this 
Count (I'm sorry I do not know his real name), 
has this Rogers stationed here for some purpose? 



FOILED NOBILITY, 31 

The circumstances surrounding this mystery fit 
that supposition perfectly. We shall see in time, 
— in time. If it is in my power to silence the 
tongue of this blackmailer, I shall do it without 
the slightest hesitation. [CcfS* itp to i,. u. v..jLolds 
open the curtains zuith his left hancf\. If she needs 
my help she shall have it. \^Exit\ \_Entcr Mrs. 
Westoii from ball-room, pale and excited. She 
advances to centre of stage. Servant enters from 
library with empty glasses on tray. He is about to 
pass out L. u. E. Mrs. Weston turns to him'^. 

Mrs. W. August ! 

Aug. \_Coming fortvard~\. Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. VV. Where is Mr. Weston ? Have you 
seen him ? 

Aug. Yes, ma'am. He vas out on der verandi 
mit Lord Beatmii und anoder shentlemans. Vill 
I call him ? 

Mrs. W. No. You may go now. \_Exit Ang. 
L. u. E.] Now conies the struggle. Wouk' to 
Heaven it were over, and I knew my fate. The 
suspense is awful. I thought I should faint in 
there ; the air was stifling, at least to me. Ah ! 
I could not join in the mirth, as I was wont to 
do. Oh, Heaven ! why will the past be brought 
before me to drape in gloom my blissful life. 
I could not bear to hear them laugh. One said 
that I looked pale. Ah ! \_Rises and zvalks 
nervously to mantel L. and leans on it, resting her 
head on her liand\ What is to be ? 

\_Mr. W., L. V. and C. L heard langliing. Mrs. 
VV. starts They pass in front of door u. p.. Mr. 
W. stands zvith his back to andience, L. V. side- 
zvays, C. L. front, still la7ighing'\. 

Mr. W. Very good, Count, very good. 

L. V. Extremely funny, indeed. 



32 FOILED NOBIL/TY. 

Mr. W. Come, let us walk out and maybe 
Lord Vinton can tell us something of his experi- 
ence. \_Coii?it sees Airs. JF.] 

C. L. You must excuse me. I should like 
very much to join you ; but I have an engage- 
ment with a )'oung lady for the next dance, and 
I am afraid I have lingered too long already. 

Mr. W. Certainly. But sorry you won't ac- 
company us. [Z. v., Mr. W. move off. C. L. 
enters, drazving the curtains to after him. He ap- 
pears smiling, cool and expectant ; advances to c] 

C. L. Ah, Marie, well met. You were rather 
later than I expected, but notwithstanding, I par- 
don you before you ask me. You are looking 
very pretty. 

Mrs. W. Infamous. \_Crosses to r.] 

C. L. No, my dear. Pretty. You do not 
seem to appreciate my compliments. \_She 
shntgs her 'shoulders\. Well, I can't say I am 
here to make them, but rather on a little business 
matter. \Panses\ Well ? — I am waiting. 

Mrs. W. \lurning to him~\. For what? 

C. L. Pray, do not compel me to speak. 

Mrs. W. I will not, for I understand you. 
You said in your letter you would go abroad to- 
morrow. What assurance have I of the truth of 
that statement ? 

C. L. \_Drazuing fortJi a pocket book and opening 
ii\. Come. \She advances to hini\. Here is my 
passage. What more proof would you have than 
this? Surely not my word of honor? 

Mrs. W. How well you know, Gaston Dean, 
you never had honor ! 

C. L. How you flatter me. But come, we 
are not here for this sort of thing; the time is 
passing and you must decide. 



FOILED NOBILITY. 23 

Mrs. W. How nuicli money will satisfy you 
to leave me in peace ? \^3fr. W. appears in door 

U. R.] 

C. L. Now, that's better. I will not be ex- 
orbitant. in my demands, so I fix the sum at five 
thousand dollars. 

Mrs. W. I have not such an amount at my 
command. \_Sits R.] 

C. L. You can get it. 

Mrs. W. No, I cannot. It is impossible. 

C. *L. \Hiirriedl)'\. Oh, come, come, do not 
hedge. 1 know you can, and twice the sum if 
you would. 

Mrs. VV. \Rises and faces hint defiantly~\. 
Gaston Dean, what you could say of me would 
not affect my character. I am as free from guilt 
as a child. Three years ago I met you at Long 
Branch; 'twas in the evening; I was full of 
romance, and you affecting to be a Count, and 
by your pleasing manners ingratiated yourself 
into my favor. On the third day after our meet- 
ing, you proposed to me. I went to my parents 
to get their consent to marry you. They re- 
buked me for ever having entertained such a 
thought; commanded me never to see you again. 
One night while I was walking alone, I heard 
you step behind me; I sought to fly ; you called 
to me to wait ; I did so ; you again pleaded with 
me; I yielded, and the next day we were secretly 
married ; and then, for the first time I learned 
your true name and character; one Gaston 
Dean, a convict and a felon. You were, two weeks 
after our marriage, arrested for for forgery, and 
had not been in custody a day until complaints 
poured in at the jail, aye, from rich and poor, 
whom you had swindled. Oh! the degredation, 



34 FOILED NOBILITY, 

the shame I felt on awakening from my dream of 
happiness, and finding myself the wife of such as 
you. My father hearing of this sent for me to 
return to him, and forgave all. Yoli wrote 
me; indeed, besceched me to come and 
help you, saying I was the only one who 
could. Did I ? No. I hated, I loathed 
you, as I do still. Why should I fear 
to have my husband know this. Is there 
anything overshadowing my past. Why should 
I give to you money intrusted to me to silence 
such as you. You had better go to your miss- 
tresses, [C L. starts,\ and wring from them their 
vile money. It suits your hands best, or forge a 
check. No doubt, you thought I'd yield to you, 
but no, rather than keep from my husband what 
it is right he should know, I will tell him my- 
self. So, you see, Gaston Dean, you have 
failed! You have failed! 

C. L. \_Smiting and playing with a 7'ose~\- 
Perhaps not — perhaps not. 

Mrs. W. Can you deny what I have said? 

C. L. I am sorry I cannot. What you have 
said is. remarkably true, and — allow me — deliv- 
ered with eloquence ; but who'll believe it? Sup- 
pose I go and tell your friends in there [pointing 
to the ball-room) that you were the wife, before 
you married this honest man, of a convict and a 
felon — as you call him. 

Mrs. W. I would denounce you as that man- 

C. L. As I leave to-morrow for abroad, that 
would have little or no effect. 

Mrs. W. What care I if you tell it to the 
world, so long as I have my husband's goodwill. 

C. L. Very well, then. I am sorry. You 



FOILED NOBILITY. 35 

might have saved this. \^Going up stage, Mr. W. 
confronts ]iiiii\. 

Mr. W. Stop, sir ! 

Mrs. W. \RusJiwg up to hiii{\. Stephen ! 
Mr. W. Marie, I have heard all. As for you, 
sir — go ! 

C. L. But not without Marie. Will she not 
bear me company? I should dislike very much 
to leave without her. 

Mr. W. Enough, sir ! She shall remain with 
me and share my comforts. 

Mrs. W. \Falls on divan l, sobbing\. I do 
not deserve this. 

Mr. W. Calm yourself, my dear. You do, 
arid more, for def3nng such a man as this. \Taps 
bell\ 

C. L. Mr. Weston, it grieves me much to be 
compelled to make known to your guests the se- 
cret history of this woman. [Clar. appears at 
L u e]. 

Mr. W. You may go at once! It is nothing 
to be ashamed of Do you suppose they would 
think the less of her for the story you could 
tell? 

C. L. Mr. Weston, the main point in this lit- 
tle scene has been left out. Would you have 
them learn that she is a bigamist? 

Mr. W. Marie, is this the truth ? 

Mrs. W\ No; God knows it is another of 
this villain's black lies. 

C. L. Can you prove what you now speak 
to be the truth ? 

Mrs. W. I can, and will. 

C. L. Do it at once. 

Mrs. W. I cannot at once. 

C. L. When ? 



36 FOILED NOBILITY. 

Mrs. W. As soon as a dispatch will reach 
my father and I receive an answer. 

C. L. We cannot wait 'till ' then ; besides, 
what father would not shield his daughter? [Ser- 
vant enters r s e]. 

Mr. W. I believe my wife speaks the truth, 
and I will trust her. \To servant.] Bring this 
man's hat. 

C. L. You are very kind. \To servant]. It 
is a light hat. You will find it on a chair this 
side of the rack. \_Exit servant]. Mr. Weston, 
where do you find a class of people who will not 
believe bad of a woman when her character is 
attacked. One simple word will blast her life 
forever, and all the good that is said of her after- 
ward will do little toward making amends. Trust 
one who knows the world. Now, you, with a 
small sum of money, at least, to yourself, can 
save this lady from the shame I could plunge 
her into. 

Mr. W. I understand you, sir, and I yield, not 
because I believe }'ou, but because of the trouble 
you could niake. What you would say would 
have more or less effect, and who would believe 
the truth ? 

C. L. You say right, sir. \_Enter L. V. r. u. e. 
wipcrceived\ 

Mrs. W. No, you shall not give him one cent. 
I would rather suffer the humiliation than feel 
that this man was getting money from you to 
keep him from telling of me — a lie. 

C. L. \AngriI)i\. Take care ! You know me 
well. 

Mrs. W. Too well ; but I defy you ! 
C. L. Mr. Weston \seeing L. K] and you, this 
woman is my wife ! 



FOILED NOBILITY. 37 

C. \_Coviiiig dozvn siagc\. You lie ! \_.C L. 
starts\. I have said it and will prove it. \_Holds 
up letter and reads] : ' With many kisses I remain 
yowx divorced Juisband, Coiint La TaiicJie! 

C. L. \Turniug suddenly to L. F.] You 
scoundrel ! You told me you burned that letter. 

L. V. A slight mistake, Count. I ask 3-our 
pardcui ? 

C. L. \Angrily\ Pardon? By Heaven! I'll 
make you repent it. ^Composing himself\ There, 
there, excuse me, friends, I forgot myself. \^Enter 
servant zvith tzvo hats. Advances to C. Z.] 
Thank you, this is mine. [Takes a hat]. I do 
not know to whom the other belongs. 

L. V. \_Looking at Jiat\ It belongs to me. I 
will take it please. \Servant hands him hat; exit]. 

Mr. W. Now, sirs we will dispense with your 
unwelcome presence. 

C. L. [Looses his temper, grasps L. V. by the 
throat, tJir owing him against the table r.] Damn 
you, you cur ; here is your good round sum ! 
[Strikes him\ 

Mr. W. Sir! 

[Enter De Piigh ; he grasps C. Lis. arm as he 
is abont to strike L. Vl\ 

De Pugh. Don't lose your temper Connt. It,s 
unbecoming in you. [to M. Wl\ You will par- 
don me Mr. Weston for entering your house so 
unceremoniously, but I have business with the 
nobility. [Pointing to L. V. and C. Ll\ 

C. L. [Cooll}i\. What business have you 
with me ? 

De Pugh. You — absent-mindedly, of cour.se 
— made the mistake of placing another man's 
name to a check, instead of your own, and your 
friend there passed it for you. Your friends up 



38 FOILED NOBILI-n^ 

the Hudson are lonesome witliout your company, 
and we (you may accompany us, Mr. Rogers,) 
will take a trip over to them. 

C. L. \_With a forced smile]. So soon back 
to the old home? Madam [/^ Mrs. W.J, you 
will pardon my use 'of profane language a few 
moments ago, but I was angered. And, gentle- 
men, when next we meet I hope it will be under 
pleasanter circumstances. In the meantime I 
shall conjure up some pleasant stories. I wish 
you all luck. As for me — well, you see^ 
"FOILED NOBILITY." Au revoir. 

TABLEAU. 

CURTAIN. 



Position of Characters at Fall of Curtain. 

De Pugh, 

L. V. 

C. L. 

Mr. W. 

Mrs. W. Clar. 

As curtain falls the center doors are thrown 
open. Music. 

(end.) 



^ij^ei^e f\rztx\ 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 



[The story of Eugene Aram, as embodied in Bul'wer Lytton's novel, is 
substantially followed in this poem. The liberty is taken, however, in the 
•closing scene of the poem, to change the manner of Aram's death.] 



" Me tliought I heard a voice ciy," " Sleep no more 

" Macbeth does murder sleep." 

* * -if * * 

" Oh, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven." 



SCENE I. — Eugene Aram's Room. 

RICHARD HOUSEMAN. 

^^g|RAM — I see you here 'mickt poverty and 

^(H' pride, 

Knowledge given, but wealth denied, 

Had'st thou but wealth, the mighty multitude 

Would seek thy book.s a.s quick as daily food, 

Thou'rt like the diamond, far from sight. 

And need'st but wealth to cast thee into light. 

Thou livest secluded, by compulsion so, 

By no one noted where 'ere you go. 

It grieves my heart, it grieves my nature rough, 

To see iiien flourish, who but publish — stuff. 

The bell of truth seems in my ears to chime 

When ends your magic pen a written line, 

I'd fain pursue and know I could 'till day. 

The hour invites me, and I must awa}'.. 



40 EUGENE ARAM. 

ARAM. 

STAY — Houseman, your words to nie are kind. 
'Tis true, I've knowledge, but to wealth am blind. 
You see that desk, stacked with my writings, 
high, 

They have ne'er been noted by the public's eye; 

All are returned unto the one that gave them 
birth, 

Returned accompanied with "They're nothing- 
worth." 

Wealth, man's mightiest ruler, on its throne 
Bows not to me, though knowledge I do own. 
The poor be damn'd, the rich forever blest; 
Houseman, how true, that life is but a jest. 
You find me now on poverty's dark shore, 
Lined like the bird, to flutter and no more. 
That waxed taper sinks in its circle grave 
To night a blessing, but to fire a slave ; 
And so with me, I fain would blaze on high, 
But poverty consumes me when 'ere I try. 
I prithee sit, thou'rt ever welcome here, 
I've too long poured my sorrow in thy ear. 
Change we now, the subject of our talk. 
Or, pleasing thee, we'll take a quiet walk ; 
Not to the village, na3'', the taunting crowd 
Ring curses at me that are grating loud, 
" For why? " thou'lt ask ? because I'm poor they 

say. 
And will not toil as they do through the day, 



EUGENE ARAIM. 4-1 

Houseman, full well thou knovvest my thoughts 

are high. 
I crave more knowledge, and with that will die ; 
I could no more unto these vulgar people drop 
Than could the earth its ceaseless motion stop. 
But now farwell unto this cheerless room, 
We'll out, the air's refreshing and bright shines 

the moon. 

SCENE U.—A zvood. 

HOUSEMAN. 

ARAM, why bear thus much when wealth is 

near, 
And thou can'st have it without work or fear; 
Once thine the poverty robe which 3^ou wear 

now 
Unfurled would be ; men of genius to thee then 

would bow. 
If thou wilt have it so, I will pursue, 
If not I'll silent be, but — pity you. 

ARAM. 

Say on, say on, I prithee, I am all intent, 
My nature's open, and my hearing lent. 

HOUSEMAN. 

'Tis Daniel Clark of whom 1 now would speak, 
That vile debauching, and insulting sneak 
He whose contaminated flesh does rot, 
Whose character is stained with a filthy blot, 
'Twas he, who with a pleasing, smiling face, 
Under pretense of purchasing some choice lace, 
Decoyed the daughter of a woman old, 



42 EUGENE ARAM. 

And — well — hushed up the matter with his gold 
He thought, but no, from house to house the 

gossipping wind 
Fast bore it, leaving naught behind, 
Lie upon lie accumulating as it blew. 
Where doors were barred, it forced its vile self 

through. 

Old maids with mouths open, faces ashen white 
Heard them with wonder, terror and afright ; 
Meanwhile the men, weak men, did fret and 

fume, 
Saying, "This very act shall seal Clark's doom." 
Did it? not so, but like some mightv king 
He tells new stories in a tavern ring ; 
And she, poor girl, with sorrow weighed, and 

shame. 
She could not live and bear her father's name, 
But with a potent poison, she herself destroyed ; 
Clark with a cynic's smile was overjoyed. 

Aram, with thee I would this man undo; 
Relieve him of his gold, give half to you. 
Nay, start not until I finished am 
I've pictured to thee full this odious man; 
It is not meet that he should live in peace, 
His crimes accumulate, and wiH never cease. 

ARAM. 

What would you have me do ? I prithee 

straight unfold 
Thy all mysterious secret of his gold. 



EUGENE ARAM. 43 

HOUSEMAN. 

You will not angry be if I offend? 

ARAM. 

No ; but patient 'till you reach the end. 

HOUSEMAN. 

All thanks. To-morrow night 'ere tolls the mid- 
night bell 

To thee TU bring, 'fall my plans hold well, 

This Daniel Clark who claims he knows you not, 

If ever did, he surely has forgot ; 

Thpu'lt courteous treat him, let no rough words 
fall, 

And treat our coming as a welcome call ; 

We'll chat awhile, some wine thou'lt have at 
hand, 

And I a prowder, dost thou understand? 

Freely partake he will, and stupid grow. 

Thick will become his tongue, his words come 
slow ; 

He'll crave fresh air. we'll seek a quiet spot. 

Say, near St. Robert's cave, the very place, why 
not ; 

His demon soul, long fettered up too tight 

With drink, its bonds will break and come to 
light. 

Insulting he will grow, and we, he'll curse ; 

/'// strike a stunning blow, biit notliing worse; 

In a leathern belt he'll likely have his gold, 

And to appropriate it I shall make so bold ; 



44 FUGENE ARAM. 

Yield half to thee, we'll go our separate ways^ 
I to seek fortune, thou, a scholar's praise. 

ARAM. 

Thy story's clear, but touches me in vain, 
No crime shall ever Eugene Aram stain. 
I had as lieve be of all hopes bereft, 
As seek to gain them by the devil theft. 

HAUSEMAN. 

Thou dost refuse me, then? I charge ye then 

beware ! 
Reveal not my secret, or I swear 

ARAM. 

Swear what? — What dost thou swear? — I pray 

thee speak. •^ 

I see — thou meanst to threaten — Well, I'm 

weak. 
And not the man to cope in streJigth with thee. 
Nor thou the man to crush the ivill in me. 

HOUSEMAN. 

Forgive me, Aram, for my being bold, 
But think of thy fame hadst thou but gold ; 
Think of this villian, this damned villian, Clark, 
That has of manhood not the slightest spark; 
Think of that ruined maid, her death, her shame. 

ARAM. 

Who was she, pray ? thou hast not told her 

name. 
I've absent been a fortnight, and have nothing 

heard ; 
'Tis news unto me now what then occurred. 



EUGENE ARAM. 45 

HOUSEMAN. 
Aram, I have witheld her name, but since 3^011 

press me, 
Marie Ceylon it was ; ah, 3-es, 'twas she- 

ARAM. 

Marie Ceylon ! that maid I daily met, so bright, 
Who seemed encompassed with celestial light ? 
Marie*Ceylon, my poor young scholar of two 

years ago. 
Thou art mistaken, truly, it can't be so. 

HOUSEMAN. 

1 swear it is; but jf thou dost demand more 

proof, 
Look to her family and there learn the truth. 
Note, for thou can'st, their seated grief untold; 
Note the wan faces of her parents old ; 
Note her small home in cheerfulness once 

shaped, 
And then the melancholy gloom in which 'tis 

draped ; 
Then turn your eyes, or thoughts, to this odious 

man. 
Without a purpose or an earthly plan — 
But of the undoing of some trusting friend, 
Or stealing, swindling, or some maid offend ; 
Then ask thy heart if my proposal's wrong. 
And if this Daniel Clark has lived too long. 

ARAM. 

Enough. I will bethink me, and if changed be, 
To-morrow night thou'lt know if I asree. 



46 EUGENE ARAM. 

(Aram and Houseman, by a preconcerted 
plan, pretend to assist Clark in his midnight 
escape with his ill-gotten money and jewels, 
and at a lonely spot near St. Robert's cave, 
Houseman strikes Clark a deadly blow, Aram 
being an inactive but willing accomplice in the 
struggle. Aram, aids Houseman in hiding the 
body in the cave and in concealing the crime 
afterwards. 

(The following scene occurs twenty years after the murder;) 

SCENE in. — A wood. At night. Aram alone. 

ARAM. 

Ye deep, unfathomed, floating and stern rooted 

stars ; 
How have I sought to solve thee many troubled 

hours ; 
How oft; how oft; when no clouds obscured 

the skies 
I've to my attic gone, towards thee upturned my 

eyes. 
And there I've sought with patience your 

mystery to unfold, 
But, alas, in vain ; your secrets rest untold ; 
Untold perhaps for ever they will calmly rest 
Content be then, ye are the only things thus 

blest. 
For me, I dwell environed by an atmosphere of 

woe, 
Linked to one gloomy thought where ere I go ; 



EUGENE ARAM. 47 

Aye, with a clanging chain whose never ceasing 

noise 
Rings on my brain, forbidding earthl}'^ joys. 
In love, in walks, in meditation deep 
Its hell-like sound haunts me, denies e'en sleep, 
Its strength is more than mortal man can break, 
'Twill not bend, nor even deign to shake, 
'Tis fettered tighter than a chain of hell 
Is to its suffering prisoner in his firey cell. 
And through the day and night it keeps the 

rasping time. 
That belongs only to a chain of crime ; 
Oh God ! had I but waited one short blessed 

day. 

{Enter Madaiine) 

MADALINE. 

What, then, Eugene had happened ? tell me, pray. 

ARAM. 
Madaline ! What brings thee to this lonely spot? 
I sought seclusion and longed to be forgot; 
Hast thou been long in hearing-distance here ? 

MADALINE. 

I have just found thee. 

ARAM. 

(Retreat attending fear), [Aside~\ 
For, Madaline, I've caught a studious melan- 
choly strain 
That lingers like a dirge upon my brain, 
I thought, sweet Madaline, of unrewarded life, 
Where, or what is the prize for all our earthly 
strife. 



48 EUGENE ARAM. 

MADALINE. 

•Eugene, our mode on earth will our reward 

decide, 
I p/ithee, though, to cast such thoughts aside 
And talk of flowers, thyself or something pleas- 
ing, dear. 
And drop thy voice like music in my ear. 
In seeking thee I've lonely roamed an hour, 
And find thee gloomily pondering 'neath this 
blooming bower. 

ARAM. 

The contrast does seem odd, it does indeed ; 
For thy forgiveness Madaline I most humbly 

plead ; 
This hand, fair lady, trembles ; ah, can it be 
Thou hast some adventure had in seeking me. 

MADALINE. 

» 

Ah, Eugene, how well thou dost read me,' 

A stranger met me and asked for thee. 

While passing near the tall and bending oak 

That overhangs this quiet little brook ; 

I saw a shadow moving in the moon's soft rays, 

And then a figure stepped full in my gaze ; 

A man it was, and in appearance rough, 

His face was haggard and his clothes uncouth. 

By first inipulse, I thought I'd run or scream, 

It all seemed like some frightful dream, 

He asked if Eugene Aram lived hereabout ; 

I replied he did ; he asked me then the route 



EUGENE ARAM. 49 

That would lead him to thy home. I gave it 

plain ; * 

He vanished then, I saw him not again. 
But liere I am, and safely, at thy side, 
My braven^ should be my Eugene's pride. 

ARAM. 

Aye, that it is. You say he asked for me ? 
He is a stranger here. Whom could it be? 
Ah, '^eW, perchance I'll know ere yet the night 

is spent, 
Towards thee meantime I'll let my thoughts be 

bent. 
But stay ! Did he make known from whence he 

came ? 
Or, Madaline, mayhap he gave his name ? 

MADALINE. 

Ah, yes ; how could I ever that forget? 
Houseman — I think it was — and yet — and yet, 
Yes, yes ; I think I'm right, but; if I'm wrong, 
Thou'lt surely learn it without tarrying long ; 
And parting, said, "Sweet lady, no harm do I 

intend ; 
I'm Mr. Aram's old and cherished friend. 

ARAM — [aside). 
Houseman ! Great God ! what sends him to 

this spot. 
To dash upon my soul a darkening blot ? 

MADALINE. 

Eugene, that ruffled frown that hovers o'er thy 
brow. 



50 EUGENE ARAM. 

Some troublesome thought denotes, affects thee 

now ; • 

Oh, tell it me, thy sympathizing friend, 
Or canst thou nevermore on me depend? 

ARAM. 

Madaline, what! I despair in trusting thee, 
Who art the shining sun and life to me ! 
No fickle nature's housed in this weary frame, 
When you speak thus you drive my soul to 

pieces. 
To think that thou to whom I've ope'd my 

heart, 
Could let thy words such unjust thoughts impart. 
This stranger, dreamed I, is an imposter bold, 
Who calls for alms and must his sad lot unfold. 
It troubles me to think he'd call me friend ; 
What welcome should I to such a man extend ? 
A hearty one, as I am wont to do, 
Or let him know I've read his nature through ; 
And caution him to leave my cottage door 
Ne'er to return, I'll help him nevermore ? 
{Aside'). Oh, God, could I but do so, what a blest 

relief. 
Madaline, tlie marks he bears of an imprisoned 

thief. 
Ah, ha ; nay come, and let us stroll around, 
And talk of stars, their mystery profound — 
No, no; not that, 'tis folly to so do ; 
Say of flowers — or what e'er pleases }'ou — 



EUGENE ARAM. 51 

Great God ! — behold yon hideous figure stand- 
ing there, 

His gaping throat, his red blood- matted hair. 

Behold with what horny fingers he ponits to 
me! 

Avaunt, thou fiend, frpm fiery hell set fi'ee ! 

MADALINE. 

Eugene ! Eugene ! What ails thee ? Tell me 
dear. 

ARAM 

Ah, 'twas but a passing fantasy; have no fear. 
Oh, heaven this brain of mine will work my 

proud life's end ; 
Ah, have I not in this dark world a friend ? 

MADALINE. 

Why stare you so into the vacant air, 

I am thy friend, and more, do not despair. 

ARAM. 

'Tis true, 'tis true I'll trust thy loving heart ; 
Good night sweet angel, for now we part. 

MADALINE, 

Oh, good Eugene, I prithee list to me, 
Thou must not study more, it brings wild 
thoughts to thee. 

ARAM. 

No more, no more, I ask but this of thee. 
When thou dost pray to-night remember me. 
Now fare thee well, to-morrow I'll be gay ; 
God bless and guard thee 'till the break of dav. 



52 EUGENE ARAM. 

MADALINE. 

Ah, fare thee well and may thy dreams be 

bright, 
Nor naught disturb thy placid rest to-night. 

\_Exit]. 

ARAM. 

Aye, bright with blood, my damned dreams 

shall be ; 
May God, and all the hosts of heaven watch o'er 

thee. 
SCENE. — A Room in Aram's House — Aram is 

Seated at an Organ. 

ARAM. 

What man, what fiend I ask again art thou, 
That now appears with ruffled brow. 
Standing mid my portieres hanging, 
(Cease thy hell chains horrible clanging) 
Red anger darts forth from thy eyes 
Stilling my organ's melodies. 

PHANTOM. 

Bethink thee well, bethink thee of the past; 
Ah ! ha ! turn pale, thou hast recalled at last, 
Root here thy gaze, note well this blistered face, 
For 'twill haunt thee man, I swear from place to 

place ; 
I am that man you struck and planned to rob, 
Be stone thy heart and let it .cease to throb. 

ARAM. 

Thou lie'st fiend, I struck thee not, nor would; 



EUGENE ARAM. 53 

These hands were never stained with human 

blood, 
Back to thy home, tliy firey, gloomy hell. 
Back with thy chains — be pinioned to thy cell, 
Nor gibe, nor grin, nor gnash th}^ teeth at me ; 

{Bell tolls:] 
Thank God, thank God, the bell and thou must 

flee ; 
Ah! ha! begone, rattle each chain and link. 
Thy ruler calls down, down, to hell you sink — 

{Phantom disappears^] 
Thou hast left foul heat my soul to wither up ; 
Eugene, thy wine, the cup, the cup ; 
Too late, too late, dread death doth come at last, 
Ah, be not slow, thou canst not come too fast ; 
And, so Eugene, thy gloomy life is done, 
No more, no more thou'lt see the heavenly sun. 
Creep on, creep on, sweet death, God sends it; 
Madaline, to thee be peace. — Thus ends it. 

{DiesT] 



\\^T)\(s 5tory. 



(jd^^AY, Hank, tell us that story, 

^ That story 'bout old Kit. 
Shut up, keep still, Nora, 

Or I'll lick you and won't care a bit." 

Then down laid the trapper's favorite dog, 

Down on the log cabin floor; 
While Sy on the fire then put a fresh log. 

And Jim Baker barred the door. 

" The story, boys, that Bill's asked me to tell," 
Happened nigh twenty years ago — 

Stop knawin' that gun, darn you, Nell ; 
Say, pards, just hyar the wind blow ! " 

" Th' wind 'ith th' story aint got nothin' to do ; 

Th' story's what we want — 
Hold on, now, 'till I take a fresh chew; 

I aint got one ! You give me one, Bunt." 

" Now fire ahead and shoot off your niouth ! 

For we're hyar for the evenin', I guess. 
I'll bet, 'fore yer through, th' wind '11 be from 
the south. 

Say, Bill, did you feed old Bess ? " 

Bess was the horse, and Bill said he had ; 
Then things got quieted down ; 



56 HANK'S STORY. 

And Hank went on, in a way that was sad, — 
The fire lit up their faces so brown. 

" 'Twas on Colorado's slrarp cactus beds 
VVhar this storj^ begins with old Kit. 

We'd been trailin' a band o' the pesky reds ; 
But on 'em we hadn't yet hit. 

" O'Neil came ridin' over the plains, 

With a message held in his hand. 
We thought we were through, then, with our 
pains, 

And he knowed whar to find the red band. 

" But the paper didn't read that way, 

But said that a wagon train 
Was passin' over th' plains that day. 

And was signed by Big Stork Lane. 

" When Kit stopped readin' that notice, 

Yer orter seed how he shook ! 
For ' some one yer'Usee,' he said to us, 

' Like yer mothers used to look ! ' 

" He said 'its been nigh twenty years 
Since my mother's face I've seen ; 

When of her I think, my eyes fill with tears. 
When I left home I was just nineteen. 

" It had been full five years since a woman we 

■ saw — 

Say, Bunt, turn over that log. 
Course we'd seen many an Indian squaw, 

But thev aint mor'n a docf- 



HANK'S STORY. 57 

" Pard.s, on a woman our e3-e.s hadn't set, 

Nor their picter in a book. 
We were up and niovin' to see one, you bet, — 

Like our mothers used to look. 

." The way it was longr, but the hosses were 
bright, 

Aad we took along stuff fer to cook. 
Kit Carson kept saying ' of onej^ou'U get sight, 

Like yer mothers' used to look.' 

" D'rectly we came to a rise in the plain, 
Whar Kit said 'twas best thar to wait. 

By 'n by. hove in sight the long wagon train. 
Yes, sir ; just as th' paper did state ! 

" On the raise we laid down and peeped over to 
spy. 
Kit was peakin' from a nook. 
When, all on a sudden, ' thar's one,' he said, 
with a cry, 
' Like my mother used to look.' 

"Sure'nuff long came a woman kind, gray and 
tall, 

VValkin' 'long by a cart ! 
We could almost see, 'neath dress and all, 

A kind, lovin' motherly heart ! 

" Her dress 'twas calico, to us finer than silk; 

In her hand she was readin' a book ; 
A form just as stately as that of an elk — 

Like our mothers used to look ! 



58 HANK'S STORY. 

"Those scouts, pards, that never flinched in a 
fight, 
Cried now, Hke babies, I sa3^ 
They tossed and were restless all through the 
night, 
And seemed sorter lonesome next day. 

" Kit was blue all through th' day, 

And kind o' went oft alone, 
Thinkin' 'bout that woman so tall and gray, 

And his mother above, in her home! 

" Next day we had a fight with th' reds; 

We licked 'em ? Well, you can bet ; 
And turned in, all sound, that night in our beds. 

I wish Kit Carson was livin' yet ! " 

As Hank finished his story and lit a fi-esh pipe, 
Bill thought it was time to " turn in." 

Many tears were shed in the cabin that night, 
And aching hearts, to see their own kin ! 
November, i88y. 



J\)e paleo^er's Bride. 

I^LADLY on the breaking morn 

^t^ Sounded the hunter's falcon horn. 

The falcon, soaring far on high, 

lieapd it's echo in the sky. 

It settled where the hunter stood 

And waited for the blinding hood. 

" Well, bird, can'st not find us meat; 

We then pursue our way with naught to eat. 

Come, now on my shoulder perch, 

And near the night we'll end our search." 

'Twas Judita, a Jewish maid, 

Who had been stolen from her father's side, 

And Jules, her lover, searching now. 

Had to her father made a vow 

That ere the dawning of two days 

He would on his daughter gaze; 

That he, Jules, would bring her home 

Or yield his life without a groan. 

He found the trail he thought was right, 

And followed it 'till fell the night. 

He reached a hut where lived a hag, 

Clothed in many a filthy rag. 

Of her he'd heard when but a boy ; 

She once was young and full of joy, 

But sorrow o'er her cast a shadow. 

As she sought and found no Eldorado. 



6o THE FALCONER'S BRIDE. 

Jules stepped to the door and knocked with his 

fist ; 
Someone within sharply said "hist!" 
Again he knocked with greater force ; 
'Twas answered by a croaking curse. 
"What would'st thou at this ghost hour ; 
Know you not the milk is sour, 
The bread is stale, the rats have slunk 
Away and hid beneath my bunk. 
Their once fat sides are now quite thin ; 
They're wearing now a hungry grin. 
r faith I've such a scanty hoard, 
I almost sometimes curse the Lord." 
Thus spake the Hag. Then Jules said, 
" I care not for your milk or bread ; 
Thou hast a treasure dear to me 
Hid in your hut, I fain would see ; 
So open then to me the door. 
Release the maid and say no more." 
" What maid ? Art crazy, thou ; 
There's none within, I'll surely vow. 
Begone and leave me to my rest. 
Ere with a curse I your soul infest." 
" Come forth thou hag, and show thy withered 

foce, 
Show me that form that once was full of grace. 
Nor cast your eyes down to the dust ; 
Release the maid, now hag, you must." 
She opened wide the oaken door, 
He stepped in on the filthy floor. 
■ " Come now, hag, bring forth the maid, 



THE FALCONER'S BRIDE. 6i 

There'll trouble be if it's delayed." 

"Then search thee, .'-iconicr of this wrinkled face 

> 

Search the hut, then every place." 

Blinded by the hag'.s brave front, 

Jules carelessly pursued the hunt ; 

Thi-n in an instant heard a voice 

That made his troubled heart rejoice — 

" Come Jules, hasten to my side." 

" I will, Judita," Jules all excited cried, 

"Where art tiiou hid?" " Here, in this musty 

chest ; 
Release me, ere return the rest." • 
Then resting the falcon on the bed, 
Jules took the cap from off its head, 
And set about the chest to open break 
And from it's hold the fair Judita take. 
At last the chest, all shattered, falls apart. 
Jules clasps Judita to his heart ; 
Nor notes with axe uplifted o'er his head, 
'I'he hag who now would strike him dead. 
The falcon though, with warning cries, 
Strikes his sharp talons in her eyes. 
She drops the axe with curses deep, 
And falls into eternal sleep. 
The falcon's claws had pierced her brain 
And left on it death's awful stain. 
" Come, Judita, come away, 
We must reach your father ere the day. 
I have without a brave, fleet-footed steed, 
That's always ready when his help I need." 



62 THE FALCONER'S BRIDE. 

But now new perils await them in the woods ; 

The thieves returning with their stolen goods, 

Seeing their prize, Judita, borne away, 

They chase the two and try brave Jules to slaw 

Despatches he two robbers to life's end — 

Ail ! Nobly the maid he does defend ! 

But now there's matched with him the robber 

chief; 
To all the maid's entreaties he is deaf; 
Jides sinks his swor<l far in the outlaw's breast 
And says : " Secrete no other maid within a 

chest ; 
Reward would'st have, I give it now 
To thee and thee and thou." 
Then drawing forth his blood-dipped sword. 
They then pursued their way without a word. 
At last they reach Judita's welcome home. 
Jules rides through the gate but not alone. 
The father weeps for joy and clasps his daughter, 
And holds her close, saying that he thought her 
Gone forever from his side. 
And that she had become a fleeing bride. 
Jules tells the story of the rescue ; 
Tells it to the wondering Hebrew. 
Without more ado the father says : 
To thee, brave Jules, there's due great praise — 
Brave, brave, noble man ! 
Here, take my daughter by the hand. 
I give her thee to glad thy life. 
And now pronounce you man and wife. 

December rsth, i88y. 



f\ I^euerie. 



|S the chapel bell was tolling, 
^ And its sounds through streets were rolling, 
At the door a faltering maiden 
With thoughts burning sorrow laden, 
Knelt and prayed upon the pavement, 
Gazed up at the open casement, 
Heard the organ's solemn swelling, 
And each note to her was telling 
Of the first and sinning children 
In the Paradise of Eden. 

Paused the organ — paused — though slowly. 
And the air of melancholy 
'Round the sacred chapel throws 
Fearful, awful, dread repose. 

Then arose the priest for blessing, 
And his voice was soft, caressing. 
As each sinner there confessing. 
Knelt upon the holy floor. 

Genervra ashamed then of her wealcness, 
Heard a voice of softest sweetness 
Floating on the solemn air ; 
Full of sorrow and despair. 
As if raised to Him immortal. 
Who rests at heaven's golden portal. 



64 A REVERIE. 

Inward slie moves, her courage rising. 
Later weakness then despising. 
Stood behind her Claudian, kneeling, 
With her veil her face concealing, 
As she heard the words he trembling, 
To the priest, who stood resembling 
Some stone statue carved and olden 
With its robes so massive golden, 
Like those adorning some great king. 
Spake, and speaking told his sin. 

" Her name," spake the priest, " else wherefore 

this confessing ; 
I cannot yet give thee thj' blessing ; 
Her name thy tongue to me shall tell, 
Or thou shalt seek a place in hell." 

?vlark, Claudian pale as alabaster, 
Now his weakness cannot master ; 
Filled with sorrow, terror, shame, 
Speaks ; "I cannot tell her name." 

■' Then, be thee cursed from this time forth ; 
Thy soul see not a happy hour on earth. 
In purgatory thou shalt dwell, 
Or in the deepest depths of hell ; 
If to tell that, thou dost refrain. 
That which I have asked, her name ; 
Back to thine house and seek seclusion, 
Thou'llt regret this day's refusing." 

" 'Twas I !" a voice, wild, shrieking cried ; 
When glancing up, the priest espied 



A REVERIE. 65 

Genervra, with her hand to heaven raised, 
And in her eyes a proud light blazed. 

" 'Twas I, who in my innocence 
Took leave of all my virtue's sense, 
And in that shortest space of time 
Wrought on myself the direst crime." 

But ere forgiveness she could implore, 
Shadows touched the hallowed floor; 
Then upward looking, her eyes beheld 
Angels, by some unseen power impelled. 

'Round the tapers burning sadly. 
Joined they singing, gayly, gladly, 
And their songs to her denoting. 
Of the august God approaching, 
With his angel band resplendent, 
Glorious, heavenly, divinel)' radiant. 

Then the tapers blazed up higher 
As the sound of wings grew nigher, 
And the ceiling backward rolling. 
Ceased the bell its dismal tolling. 

Downward came the holy God — '■ 
Down ipto this bless'd abode ; 
Near the cross He grandly rested. 
And each soul He there invested 
With the purest sense of heaven, 
As if all he had forgiven. 

Angels near the Saviour stand ; 
Some are holding in their hands 



66 A REVERIE. 

Twigs from the celestial palms ; 
Others slowly singing sacred psalms. 

From Genervra's cheek the blush of roses fly ; 
Gone, the seraphic sparkle of her eye ; 
On her Saviour's breast reclining, 

And on her face a pale light shining, 
Shows that her life on earth is o'er. 
And blessed her name forevermore. 

Then spake the Holy King of men : 
" Know ye all that I ordain 
Each of you to dwell with Me in heaven ; 
All your past sins are now forgiven ; 
Behold ye now, that true repentance 
Brings from Me a righteous sentence. 
But why do ye this priest obe}^ ? 
Confess ye not, till judgment day, 
And then confess to me alone — 
To Me upon My holy throne." 

Then down from the blissful heavens came 
A gold-emblazoned chariot train 
Drawn by horses white as snow; 
Backward their manes in silence flow; 
By the angels gently guided, 
Who in God had first confided 
All their sins when creatures of the earth, 
Reaping now eternal bliss and mirth. 

Downward came they, faintly floating, 
Above the holy chapel halting ; 



A REVERIE. 67 

Shone like the flaming Boreah's, 
Poised on heaven's golden terrace. 

Then taking Genervra by the hand, 

And also the pardoned Claudian, 

The Saviour to his chariot then ascended, 

With love in love together blended. 

A word to the horses, and the bright train 

Moved mystically upward, ne'er to be seen again. 

Upward and onward they took their fair flight, 

'Til lost in the wavering dimness of sight. 

Then 'wakening from my fantasmal dream, 
And seeing daylight through my uncurtained 

window stream, , 

I sunk back on my pillow with a despairing 

groan, 
Sighing: "God is all power, and all power 

alone." 

November, iSSy. 



'B\)e \\uf)<^\)b2Q\(s Story. 



IPI^I^E knocked at the door of a tavern, lit b}' a 

^^^ flickering lamp. 

We were hungry, tired, and thirsty, after our 

weary tramp. 
'Twas opened by a Hebrew. We entered and 

sat down. 
He asked if we would stay all night or move on to 

the town. 

We said that we would stay all night, and asked 

for supper too. 
He ordered it, we both partook, and shortly we 

were through. 
The room was filled with a motley crowd of men, 

both young and old, 
Who had gathered there for shelter, for the nigh 

was bitter cold. 

And one said : " Friends, the wind blows hard 

and all without is hoar, 
What say you to a weird tale of the ghost- like 

days of yore ?" 
We nodded our consent to him, the rest, the}' 

did so too ; 
The wind it howled, the wind it moaned, the 

lamp-light weaker grew. 



70 THE HUNCHBACK'S STORY. 

Our shadows, dark and motionless, lay on the 
tavern floor, 

As we sat before the blazing fire to hear this tale 
of yore. 

The speaker was a hunchback Jew, with sunken 
cheeks and brown, 

He wore above his restless eyes a never-chang- 
ing frown ; 

And ever and anon the wind would blow the 

bright sparks forth ; 
They would soar aloft, then settle down, and die 

upon the hearth. 
And then in a measured tone, and low, this all 

mysterious man, 
With sunken cheeks and frowning brow, this 

weird tale began : 
"The skies hung low above the land, forboding 

was their cast, 
And watch-dogs howled and frightened birds 

with drooping plumes flew past ; 
The golden moon would now and then gleam 

through a breaking cloud, 
And drop its rays upon the earth rapt in its 

snowy shroud. 
An ancient, moss-grown tomb there was, stood 

in a gloomy wood, 
A line there was upon the door, and traced it 

was in blood ; 
It read like this :' He'll ne'er depart who enters 

through this door. 



THE HUNCHBACK'S STORY. 71 

Pursue thy wa}^, and of this vault seek thou to 
learn no more.' 

'Twas on this night a traveler lone, sat down 

with bended head, 
Then raised his ej^es up to the sky and sighed: 

' Would I were dead.' 
He'd wandered from his native home, his wife 

^ and all were gone ; 
And friendless, he was left to mourn and curse 

his lot alone. 

The hoot-owl in this lonely wood sent forth 

it's dismal call. 
And, save the mournful sound it made, silence 

reigned o'er all. 
Arose the traveler lonely, and stood near this 

ancient tomb, 
And frowned when he saw his shadow in the 

light of the winter moon. 

He gazed on his shadow resting on its bed of 

sparkling snow. 
And he cried : ' By all the witches, what fiend 

has shaped me so ?' 
He heard a solemn, measured chant, that sounded 

low and far, 
And the moon was veiled and all was dark at 

this ghostly midnight hour. 

He started to pursue his way, but paused in 
wonder quite, 



72 THE HUNCHBACK'S STORY. 

And a feeling of awe came o'er him, yet not 

akin to fright, 
As his hand in groping forward touched the 

stone door of the tomb, 
And he wondered much, a cabin should be in 

this wood of gloom. 

He pushed the door, it yielded, he entered, it 

closed behind ; 
The solemn chant grew louder, like the moaning 

of the wind, 
And he saw afar in the d'stance, a serpent, curl 

of smoke 
That arose and softly vanished, no air its vile 

shape broke. 

And he walked to the place where he saw it, and 

then there met his gaze 
Some withered hags, who started, and pouited in 

amaze ; 
They were gathered 'round a human skull that 

grinned and turned around 
Upon two whitish cross-bones that lay upon the 

ground. 

Then one witch poured in the eye-holes a liquid 

that was green. 
And there came forth a greenish fire, and all the 

hags did scream ; 
And one said : 'Breathe we now the fire, and 

we will live forever, 
And never die, and never die — no never, never, 

never !' 



THE HUNCHBACK'S STORY. 73 

With that, they all leaped at the fire, the traveler 

did the same ; 
He kicked the skull, put out the fire, while anger 

shook each fi-ame. 
The witches shook their shaggy locks, and one 

witch cried ' 'tis well, 
Ho, ho, why man you've done a deed ! we'll 

send ye down to hell. 

You killed a man for taunting you, about your 

twisted form, 
That was his skull, 'twas sent to us e'en while 

his blood was warm ; 
Your wife's above in heaven, you'll ne'er see her 

again ; 
You've done a deed, a crimson deed, and must 

bear the curse of Cain. 

* We'll torture you with horned toads, half 

choke you with a snake, 
Then dip ye down ten thousand times, into our 

lizard lake.' 
They closed about him, he struck a witch, and 

dashed her 'gainst the wall. 
He waved a stick above his head, and every 

witch did fall. 

And, lo! the stick was a magic wand, he'd car- 
ried it for days, 

He held it in his hand, and looked upon it in 
amaze, 

And then an angel came to him, all beauteous 
and fair ; 



74 THE HUNCHBACK'S STORY. 

With a star upon her forehead, and jewels in her 
hair. 

She said, ' Thy God has shaped thee thus, and 

be thou then content, 
What if thy legs be twisted, and thy body 

rudely bent? 
Art thou ashamed to mingle with thy brothers *■ 

here on earth, 
And . dost thou curse the mother that hath given 

to thee birth ? ' 

The traveler sank upon his knees, before the 

angel fair. 
And asked forgiveness of his God, in true and 

earnest prayer, 
And, lo ! his prayer was answered, but the 

seraph, she was gone, 
And he was left within the tomb, with grinning 

snakes alone. 

And they spat forth a blazing and a gurgling 

stream of gore, 
As they looked at him with glittering eyes, and 

writhed upon the floor; 
But with his wand of magic he held them at his 

feet. 
And then with one wild hissing sound, they all 

beat swift retreat. 

He went then to the rocky door, that opened 
from the tomb. 



THE HUNCHBACK'S STORY. 75 

And it swung out, and he walked out beneath 

the withered nioon ; 
Aye, the moon was witliered, and the stars had 

lost their Hght, 
And he felt like one let loose from hell, to 

wander in the night. 

Then he said, ' perhaps this magic wand has 

done this cursed thing,' 
And he broke it o'er his twisted form, away the 

pieces he did fling ; 
Then the low and measured chant, again assailed 

his ears. 
And he raved like a maniac, and cried, ' Oh ! 

cursed are my years.' 

Just then, as if to mock him, strange forms about 

him passed, 
And they were shrunk and twisted e'en to the 

very last. 
And then a solemn voice spoke forth, ' Man 

check thy brutal rage. 
And that thou may'st repent, I'll add ten years 

unto thy age." 

' I'll not accept thy gracious gift; ' the traveler 

cried aloud, 
* I'd rather feel about this hulk, death's white 

and icy shroud.' 
He drew forth from his leathern belt, a dagger 

glittering bright ; 



76 THE HUNCHBACK'S STORY. 

The stars blazed out, the moon swelled out, 
and all again was light. 

He struck then at his heaving breast, the dagger 

did rebound, 
And broken, lay there at his feet, upon the hoary 

ground. * >. 

He clutched then at his swelling throat, and 

tried himself to choke; 
And from that hellish dream, at last in terror 1 

awoke. 

You note this frown ? you note it all ; whence 

came it, did you say ? 
It came to me while in that dream, I've worn it 

to this day. 
'Twas drink that brought about that dream, it 

haunts me \yhile awake; 
I'm chained to it with some hell chain, that I 

can never break. 

Ah ! there now is that smothered chant — heark- 
en can'stthou hear? — 

The witches say, this day's my last, and the last 
one of the year." 

This all mysterious man, then fell upon the 
tavern floor, 

We started, all, and each one thought, is this a 
tale of yore. 

And then the landlord spoke and said, "J. 
prithee have no fear, 



THE HUNCHBACK'S STORY. 77 

He's but poor ' Job,' a maniac, and has been so 

for years. 
He's haunted bj^ wild thoughts you see, the 

blood's rushed to his head ; 
Just raise him up;" we did so, but lo ! the man 

was dead ! 

With faces ashen white, we gazed upon his 

twisted form. 
The wind it groaned, the wind it moaned, and on 

there came a storm. 
The watch-dog howled a mournful howl, the 

wind it shrieked and wept ; 
We each then went unto our beds, but not one 

of us slept. 

December ^ I St, iSSy. 



Orpl^eus ai}d ^urydiei^. 



ORPHEUS. 

^jl HRICE hallowed maid and full divine, 
^i The sunlight of my years ; 
Celestial ever shall thy beauty shine, 
And wipe away my tears. 

The pure angelic carrier dove 

That brought your dear words to me, 

Seemed to be with thee in love, 
So fast he flew back to thee. 

EURYDICE. 

Fond Orpheus, ere the ending of the dial 

I will be with thee in Thrace, 
My soul is full of thee, the while 

My heart scarce holds its place. 

Forever in my vestal veins 

The blood of love flows warm. 

The thought runs throug my restless brain 
Of thy dear person's charm. 

'Tis evening cool, two lovers meet. 

Passionately they embrace, 
Ambrosial fragrance rise round them sweet 

From flowery banks in Thrace. 



8o ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE. 

Oegrus comes, Orpheus' father 

Followed hard behind - 
By Calliope, Orpheus' mother; 

The lovers then they bind. 

The pair then, seek a quiet nook 

With roses for its wall, 
Fringing on a silvery brook 

With many a rippling fall. 

Resting there, of love they taste, 

Its first and only bliss. 
Though briefly then away to haste, 

And end it with a kiss. 

On 'morrow morn', Apollo comes, 

To Orpheus gives a lyre. 
And says 'twill charm the heavenly suns, 

And quench infernal fires. 

The muses come, nine full in band. 

And float about his ears, 
His sense's to these words expand, 

" Now cast away thy fears." 

" With this same lyre enchanted be, 
The rocks, the trees, the beasts 

Thou'lt always clasp, Eurydice, 
And have love's glorious feast. 

False muses! what, false said I ? 

Nay, ye are always just. 
Ye never could breath forth a lie, 

Mistakes, admit, you must. 



ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE. Si 

Ere many days Eurydice, 

Was by a serpent stung ; 
The last she said, " Fond one from thee, 

Into death's cave I'm flung." 

Lady of Thrace in thy one happy hour, 

To be of hTe so briefly stripped ; 
Talcen from thy ever blooming bovver 

When life you've only sipped. 

Orpheus follows with lyre in hand, 

Paused 'fore the gates of hell; 
The outward walls in terror scanned, 

Dispairing then he fell. 

Determined, rises, his charm he tries. 

Trusting but to fate ; 
In hell's far corners its sweet echo dies, 

Then opens wide the gate. 

He entered, but with one desire, 

And that to see his own ; 
Then stood before the lake of fire, 

Which seemed with blood to foam. 

Prayed he, " Heavenly God set free, 

Give me by the hand. 
My own, my wife, Eurydice, 

And I'll do Thy command." 

Retrace thy steps then to the gate. 

She will follow near thy side, 
Nor look thee back, 'twill be too late," 

A heavenly voice replied. 



82 ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE. 

He had almost passed the fatal bound, 
Hell's gates swung witl^^a groan ; 

Anxiety of love then turned him 'round, 
Eurydice was gone. 

The devils bore her hastily back. 

And chained her to the wall. 
Around her settled hell's deep black; 

In vain did Orpheus call. 

The devils grinned, the hell hounds barked, 

The bats around him flew, 
The flames leaped higher, sharply forked, 

The horns of demons blew. 

Green spiders hung from webs of slime, 
Horned scorpions 'round him crawl; 

He hears the cry. of a concubine 
Re-echo from hell's wall. 

;}: * * * * * 

Back to Thrace, then Orpheus went, 

And met the harlots there ; 
He treated them with scorn, contempt. 

These Thracian harlots, fair. 

For him, then vanished all their love. 
With knives from vulcan forges, 

They killed him in the excitement of 
Their Bacchanalian orgies. 

November, iSSy. 



Jfje pate of tl^e plirt. 



(^f^'RESSED in soft and rustling tafieta 
"4^i Whirled she 'round on waxed floor, 
In the charming dance lavolta, 
Forgotten now, forever more. 

Two knights stood by in rapture gazing 
On this beautious maid of Spain, 

And indeed, it was amazing 

How, o'er all there she did reign. 

Gazed they rapt with admiration 
On this Spanish maid, so fair, 

Escorted with much incurvation 
By her partner to a chair. 

Bowed he then with knightly courtesy. 
Thanked her for her gracious hand. 

From her side he strutted pompously, 
Struck up then the " Saraband." 

By, there came a knightly gallant 
Darts at her a winsome glance ; 

Responds she sweet with smile relucent, 
And he wins her for the dance. 

In his arms, she grows more pliant, 
As the dance enchanting grows ; 



S4 THE FATE OF THE FLIRT. 

Drops she then a diamond pendant, 
He picks it up with many bows. 

He takes her gently by the arm 

And leads her to a seat, 
She talks to him with winning charm, 

Which grows so dangerous sweet 

He attended her with great respect, 
And longed to press her to his breast; 

But when he broached love's subject, 
She changed it with a jest. 

He told her that no royal knight 

Could love her as did he ; 
Then in her eyes coquettish light 

Was dancing playfully. 

He took her gently by the iumd, 
His suit, he pleaded ardently, 

And said, " Would they together band." 
She answered pleasantly. — 

" This has come to me so sudden, 
My answer yet I cannot give ; 

But, to-morrow, my dear leman. 
You shall have it if I live. 

" A glass of wine, now bring me please, 
You'll find it in the outer room, 

I think it will, my headache ease; 
Hurry back with it quite soon." 

Fixed he then the wine to suit her, 
Nor the sugar did lie slight ; 



THE FATE OF THE FLIRT. ^ 

Started back, but paused in wonder 
As he saw a kneeling knight. 

Aye, beside her, there was kneeh'ng 

A richly clothed and handsome knight ; 

That made himl^laze with jealous feeling, 
Which he tried to quench with might. 

Down the glass of wine he dashed; 

His spirit full of anger, 
And from his eyes the lightning flashed, 

As he rushed up to the stranger. 

He laid his hand upon his shoulder 

And stared him in the face ; 
Saying as he grew much bolder, 

" Go ! seek another place ! " 

" By what I'eason, do you Sir Knight 

Ask me to leave her side ? " 
" For the reason and the right, 

That she's to be my bride." 

" What say you sir, what said you now ? 

That she is to be bride to thee ? 
She gave me knight, her sacred vow 

That she'd be that to ;//t'." 

Spake the lady, " Oh, quarrel ye not, 

Or my love you'll surely lose ; 
My life is not a happy lot ; 

I cannot between you choose. 

" I love you sirs both equall}^ 
And love not one the best ; 



86 THE FATE OF THE FLIRT. 

I acted only playfully, 
And merely in a jest." 

" Stay Senorita, do not go, 

You've pledged your hand to me; 

You Sir Knight, to tell me, are not slow, 
She has done the same to thee. 

" There is a forest not far hence 
Where w^'ll this matter right, 

Now, you sir knight, with all your sense 
Choose weapons for the fight." 

"Your challenge, I accept brave Knight, 
And swords — if it suits you ; 

Lets haste ere morning's grayish light, 
Ther'll be left but one of two." 

Shraightway went they to the forest. 
Followed by the trembling maid ; 
Speaking 'gainst the duel in protest, 
. Asking it to be delayed. 

" Nay, senorita," spake a knight. 

" It must be at once, aye, now ; 
You have brought about this fight, 

By pledging each a vow." 

Drew they forth their weapons bright ; 

In fashion then they poised them. 
Flashed they in the soft moonlight, 

And terrified the maiden. 

Screamed she then in deadly terror ; 
Rushed between the fighting men. 



THE FATE OF THE FLIRT. 87 

And their joking changed to sorrow, 
Fearful she'd been killed by them. 

To the ball-room straight they bore her, 

Hoping there she'd soon revive, 
But her breath came harder, slower, 

'Till at last she ceased tojive. 

Ladies shun ye allflirtation, < 

For by it you'll nothing gain ; 
It only leads you to perdition. 

Bethink ye of this maid of Spain. 



1[)<l Juyo pi;;aQtoms. 



A DREAM. 



'^r|IS midnight, and the silent hour 
^'^ With sadness comes full freiijhted, 
And on my soul a gloomj^ shower 
Falls from a cloud benighted. 

The fire has smoldered on the hearth 
To a black and formless heap ; 

Nature now rests o'er half the earth. 
But sorrow denies me sleep. 

The clock on the mantel is standing 
Where it's rested for many a day, 



S8 THE TWO PHANTOMS. 

And the sta^ on it's top so conimaning^. 
His body seems almost^to sway. 

Thou wave of sable sorrow ever 

Drenching my soul of late ; 
Rest on thy plutonian river, 

Release me rom this state 

Ashes ! Oh ! God, the loneliness 

Thy name to me implies, 
And in your funeral blackness 

Grim desolation lies. 

I think of the haunted palace, 

Of the credulous days of yore, 
I try in vain to borrow solace, 

While on melancholy's shore. 

An icv hand rests on my shoulder, 

It chills my coursing blood; 
Its touch grows colder and colder. 

Yet seemingly kind and good. 

I turn around and meeting 

The eyes of a phantom, I start ! 

A fearful, {rightful feeling 
Is seated within my heart. 

The phantom then to me addresses 

These words lingering now on m}' brain. 

And my shoulder it icily presses. 
As it tells me the wherefore it came'. 

" 'Tis the eve of the birthday of Jesus ; 



THE TWO PHANTOMS. 89 

Down on your knees and to prayer, 
'Tis the eve of the of birthday of Jesus, 
Yet who of the millions do care. 

I kneel on the knees that have bended 
In prayer, but once in many a year. 

Though often and often intended, 

When thoughts of religion came near. 

And now in a voice that is faltering 

I breathe forth a fervent prayer. 
It sounds on the silence as startling, 

As a growl from a lion's deep lair. 

The phantom above me is towering. 

Yet for it I feel a pure love ; 
My mind is not doubting or fearing. 

It seems a messenger sent from above. 

It vanishes from me so softly. 

No sign of its parting is heard, 
Its bearing majestic and lofty. 

Not even the stillness is stirred. 

My soul is at last free from sorrow. 
And as light as white sailing cloud ; 

I long for the dawn of the morrow. 

But no more for the folds of death's shroud. 

But now on the divan reclining 

Is a nymph so bewitchingly fair, 
And the moon through the casement is shining 

On the rich golden waves of her hair. 



go THE TWO PHANTOMS. 

She speaks in a voice so magnetic, 

It strikes the sensitive cord of my heart ; 

Her eyes glow with h'ght, soft and mystic, 
But eagerness through them doth dart. 

" Would'st thou seek in the valley of reason, 

And learn that there is no God ? 
Would'st thou enter the valley of reason 

Where others have safely trod? 

" If so, I'll lead and you follow, 

Let me hold gently your hand, 
We'll travel through sunshine and shadow, 

'Till at last in the valley we stand." 

" Ah, nymph, art thou one of those creatures 
Who would demolish the temple of grace. 

And snatch from the mind its fair features. 
Though you've nothing there to replace. 

" Your doctrine. I know some are preaching; 

Some who think they are greater than God ; 
The religion which they are now teaching 

Should be buried with them 'neath the sod. 

" Get thee back to the devil that sent thee ! 

And step not again on this floor, 
Get thee back to the devil that lent thee, 

And visit my soul nevermore." 

;fc * * >l« :(; * * 

The bells of Christmas are ringing; 

Why, 'twas but a dream that I've had, 
And the carols, gay children are singing 



THE TWO PHANTOMS. 91 

As they trip through the streets hght and 
glad. 

I step to the window and gazing 

Up towards the Blessed Abode ; 
There is no one, no one, I'm saying, 

Who doubts in his heart there's a God. 

December^ i88j. 



/T)(^lap(5(^. 



GRATITUDE. 

When soft rose the perfume of summer, 
I'd seek me some cool quiet spot, 

And there I'd let all be forgotten, 
And no doubt was by all forgot. 

There with the stars, soft rays playing 
On the sleepfng trees and the flowers, 

I thought 'tis nature alone that is thankful 
For the light of the sun and the stars. 

And for the sw^et life to it given ; 

Unburdened with sorrow and care, 
I felt e'en though it is speechless, 

It sends forth a heavenly prayer. 

And by the bediamond like waters 

Of the brook, slipping hght thr'o the wood, 



92 MELANGE. 

I felt, though surrounded by comfort, 
My heart lacked the true gratitude. 
June p, IBS']. "- 



SYLVIA. 



A voice swelled on the moonlit night ; 

A lute's tones tripped along, 
The voice was clear, the voice was light. 

That lingered in this song. 

" List, list ! — list, list ; 

Sweet angel you have won my heart ; 
Come forth bright maid, be not afraid, 

One kiss and I depart. 
While ^'littering stars in azure towers 

Covet thy bright face ; 
Oh, pray arise, and with thine eyes, 

Lend to this night more grace." 

A shadow appeared on the velvet lawn. 

It rested motionless ; 
The lute was stilled, the night was filled 

With celestial loveliness. 

" Sylvia this brief hour is fleeting, 

Venus watches thee and I, 
Though we must in haste be parting. 

Still we part with many a sigh." 

" Farewell Lorenzo, for 'tis to meet and part, 
No conference we're allowed, 



MELANGE. 93 

Still love, in full sway, rules my heart, 
While silence is my shroud." 

" Farewell sweet Sylvia, for 'tis to meet and part ; 

To meet is bliss divine, 
But parting withers up the heart ; 

Then joy has its decline." 

Sylvia stood in the balcony window ; 

Her shadow lay on the lawn, 
Lorenzo knelt and kissed the shadow, 

And starlicrht was his crown. 



A STRANGE DEATH. 

He sat at the organ rolling 

A Roman dirge from its keys, 

And the curfew's solemn tolling 
Blended with its melodies. 

The chamber was rich!)' furnished 
With patterns stately and old ; 

The organ was brightly garnished 
With seraphs wrought in gold. 

And the cold sad moon was shining 
Through a casement in the room. 

On a statue half reclining 
Of a hero veiled in gloom. 

And the duke sat dreamil}/ fingering 
The keys with a touch that was light, 

And the muffled tones were lingering 
On the silence of the nig^ht. 



94 MELANGE. 

Lingering as they departed, 

On the sable waves of air, 
Like a mourner broken-hearted 

Filled with sorrow and dispair. 

But lo ! a dull-armored figure 

Through the portieres, spectre like, glides, 
And moves with the stealth of a tiger; 

Then at last on his course decides. — 

" From this spot of deep seclusion 
Soon a soul will mount with speed ; 

Would to God I had not been chosen 
To do this crimson deed. 

" Play on! play on! while thou mayest, 

Let thy solemn music roll 
For on earth thou shortly stayest. 

Then play into heaven thy soul, 

" The star of thy life is declining ; 

Thy good and noble head 
Soon will feel celestial light shining 

On its snow when thou art dead." 

Thus spake the dark assassin, 

And with no warning word 
An old duke's soul had risen 

At the thrust of a gleaming sword. 

And a corpse the moon was bathing 

Of a noble man and brave. 
Who unconsciously had been playing 

His funeral march to the grave. 



MELANGE. 95 

A VIEW OF HAMLET. 

Hamlet of immortal fame. 

Is thought by many to have been insane, 

The noblest thoughts hung 'bout his pate, 

His purpose halted by the hand of fate. 

He heard the ghost in solemn night, 

And swore his father's wrong to right. 

Bethought he madness then to feign 

By which he would his object gain. 

But sponging spies lurked 'round his back 

That set this delicate mind on rack. 

He loved a woman beneath his sphere, 

Yet wept with saneness o'er her bier. 

His mother speaks he justly to, 

And stings her with his lecture througli. 

Ophelia's father killed he then, 

A rasher act could not have been. 

It changed his every tliought and plan 

And sent him to a foreign land ; 

In company with pretended friends 

Whom he sent unto their ends. 

Back he came then to resume 

His plans, which had an end so soon. 

Revenge he had, and that full well 

In sending Claudius' soul to hell. 

His mother's poisoned unto death, 

Likewise, Laertes void of breath. 

Hamlet follows with princely grace. 

His death he takes in his embrace. 

Sorrow weighed and melancholy. 



9° MELANGE. 

He never stooped to acts of folly 

At times, afraid he'd lose his wits, 

When in soliloquizing fits. 

No mind unsettled, ere had he, 

For proof, " To be, or not to be." 

No madman ever walked the ground. 

Who formed such thoughts, so deep profound. 

Now, oh sirs, both young and old 

Forgive me full for being bold, 

But in all his actions, Hamlet's, plain, 

He never could hav.e been insane. 



MINDS OF YOUTH. 

'I'hat minds are brighter in thejr happy youth. 
Is but an old and everlasting truth. 
Minds elder weary of their life. 
Welcome the end of unsuccessful strife. 
Ambitious youth seeking to make a name. 
Crowned with laurels and never ending fame. 
Overtaken at last by age itself, 
He sinks back to the fretting peevish elf. 
Ceases then the sparkle of his mind to shine ; 
Grim death then comes to him in shape sublime. 
Man is like the wavering of the reed 
He believes and believes not in the holy creed- 
His life he tries to fathom, but cannot, 
In many regions does he cast his lot, 
At last he owns he's but to life a slave. 
And puzzled dies — is borne to his grave. 
November, iSSy. 



MELANGE. 97 

TO DONNELY. 

Oh, Donnely, take it unto thyself 

To place your proof upon the shelf, 

Take not from us a friend so dear. 

Prove not that Bacou wrote Shakespere. 

If 'tis fame that you are after 

We'll read you quick, forget you faster. 

The bard of avon all divine, 

Will ever on our senses shine, 

Try to fathom but his plays 

And not Lord Bacon all thy days, 

Scatter thy proof then to the skies. 

" Where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise." 



THE TRAVELER'S STORY. 

'Twas in the bleak December, the chores had all 
been done, 

And the day to night had vanished with the set- 
ting of the sun. 

When a tired and careworn traveler stopped at 
my cottage door 

And asked for just a moment's rest, he wanted 
nothing more. 

I gladly gave it to him and asked him in to 

warm, 
Saying its an awful night sir to be out in a storm^ 
Said he, " You're right it is sir, but ere to-mor- 
row noon. 



gS MELANGE. 

I must be in smoky London, aye in great Lon- 
don town.' 

The story that he told me made my eyes dim 

with tears ; 
'Tvvas about his loving wifisj and prattling little 

dears. 
He said he left great London upon the Sabbath 

day, 
With just four hundred pounds, a year's hard 

worked for pay, 

A letter from a pretended friend, bade him come 

witli him invest 
All his money in a gold mine, in America's far 

West. 
' I took the ocean steamer,' said he, ' And 

sailed from Liverpool. 
The trip to me was novel and the sea breeze 

brisk and cool.' 

I wish to my wife's warnings I had ever been 
less deaf. 

And not have trusted all my wealth to a trick- 
ster and a thief, 

But how was I then to forsee, my friend I knew 
at school. 

He was an idle lad, wearing much the cap that 
marks the fool. 

Pshaw, he must be honest, his letters read that 
way. 



MELANGE. 99 

And then tlie steamer landed — landed in New 

York bay. 
I took the train that very eve to go to Leadville 

town ; 
The cars run much slower there than they do 

o'er English ground. 

In a few days with all my luggage I reached my 

shopping point ; 
Weary from the travel and sore in every joint. 
My man was there to meet me with many a 

scrape and bow, 
Saying to treat us travelers, he knew the best 

way how. 

He took me to a lodging house, the room was 

neat and clean. 
They sent me up some water by a waiter lank 

and lean ; 
I washed and dressed, then locked the door, and 

went out in the street. 
The houses looked quite cosey and the people 

very neat. 

Then up a stranger came to me, I think his 

name was Cline. 
He said, ' Your friend Rolan said for you and I 

to meet him at the mine,' 
Our way we took then to the mine, and there 

we met my friend. 
Said he, "A rich investment this, on my word 

you may depend." 



100 MELANGE. 

I gave liim all my money and his eyes they 

blazed up bright, 
As he held it in his own hands and held it 

mighty tight. v. 

They worked the mine just twenty feet, when 

suddenly they halted, 
A man came by, examined it, and said it had 
, been salted. 

I looked around for Rolan, but he had the 

country fled ; 
And then to stir my sorrow, I learned my wife 

and babes were dead. 
They died of cold and of starvation in the 

streets of London town, 
And in the paupers' burrying yards, they laid 

my dear ones down, 

I tramped my way back to New York, then 

worked my passage here ; 
Passing through many hardships without the 

slightest thought of fear. 
I have nothing now to live for, but to obey my 

God. 
My darlings' souls now rest with Himjwhile their 

bodies 'neath the sod ; 

Now thank you sir for taking in one so ragged 

and alone. 
God bless you, may you never know what life is 

without a home. 



MELANGE, lol 

SHE IS BLEST. 
Toll, toll again that funeral bell. 
Let it again its story tell, 

Of a maid, 
Who perished on life's darkling sea; 
From this world taken and from me. 

She is dead ! 

Sound, sound again that palling knell, 
Like the echo in a shell 

Of the wave, 
It will linger in my heart, 
From which it never will depart ; 

To it I'm a slave. 

And a melancholy feeling 
Comes o'er me as I'm kneeling 

On the ground. 
And the bell's dull, dismal tolling 
Lingers long as it is rolling 

All around. 

By her grave, yes, I am kneeling, 
As the shades of night are stealing 

O'er the world. 
Will this winding sheet of sorrow 
Not be loosened on the morrow, 

And unfurled ? 

And the faded rose is drooping. 
And the withered violets stooping 
To be kissed 



MELANGE. 



B)' my darling softly sleeping, 
And her heart has ceased its beating 
She is blest ! 
1887. 



A SMILE AND A TEAR. 

Gayly, gayly ringing, hear the wedding bells. 
What a world of happiness their merry music 
tells, 

Of a gleeful wedding 
That occurs to-day, 
Ofa loving couple 

With hearts light and gay. 

Tolling, tolling, tolling, hear the funeral bell, 
See the veil of sorrow that comes with its palling 

knell, 

And the hearse black plumed. 

And the carriage train, 
Waiting for the body 

That at last is free from pain. 

Sighing, sighing, sighing, see the husband lone, 
Leaning on the coffin of his wife whose soul is 
gone 

To the great unknown, 

There to see a brighter day 
She has crossed the golden river 
Far, far away ! 
January 11, 1888. 



MELANGE. 

TIME. 

Tell me not, that souls of sorrow 

Never see a brightning day ! 
Or to-morrow, and to-morrow, 

Comes to us with morning's gray. 

I was, with my fond love, floating, 
On that placid river, " Tmie," 

On that morning's happy boating, 
She seemed a creature, all divine. 

I whispered : "Sweet Ogarita, 
What, dear, is your one desire?" 

She answered; "Marinita, 

To be with thee, a being higher. 

I picked a stick, which she threw down. 

And tossed it in the river. 
Saying: "Float thee on, ah, float the on, 

Forever, and forever!" 

Said she: "Oh, say not so, 

It yet may find a staying ; 
It can not, dear, forever go. 

You'll find it when you're Maying. 

Through yonder wood, this river slips, 
Where flowers 'neath willows grow. 

It's waters kiss their ruby lips. 
As gently by they flow." 

"And there your stick may lodge in time, 
Lodging ever there to stay, 



I04 MELANGE. 

Gathering 'round it, greenish shme. 
To coat it many a day." 

Spoke I : "Ogari^ta, ever, 

Through every town and cHme, 

Runs this perpetual river — 
The ceaseless river — Time. 

"Upon whose surface, we are cast. 

To do as best we can ; 
And, when our life on earth is past. 

We join another band. 

" Continue, we, thus, evermore ; 

To-morrow never comes, 
But sorrow sees a brighter shore, 

Lit up by many suns. 

" And when, on Heaven's holy ground, 

We see a beck'ning star. 
We restless, grow, then soar around, 

And fly to that, afar ! 

"And thus, forever, do we go, 

Stopping not to be at rest. 
But trust to God ; He guides life's flow, 

And does for us, the best. 

"Then think not, in all our lives. 
That stick will ever cease to glide ; 

It is, my own, just like ourselves — 
It goeth with the tide." 

November, 1887. 



MELANGE. 105 

THE HUMAN TONGUE. 

In human tongue more danger lies 
Than mortal ever could surmise, 
'Twill lie you to a deed of shame, 
And all your future hopes will lame ; 
Unhappy marriages it doth make. 
From virtue, virtue, will it take. 
And leave to rot all that it's overcome; 
Aye, rot, " breed maggots in the sun." 
November ^o, 188 y. 



THE EARTH'S LAST KISS TO THE 
DYING DAY. 

'Tis evening and I am standing 

On the sand, and shell strewn beach, 

Of the ocean o'er treasures rolling. 
Forever beyond my reach. 

And the sun hangs low in the heavens 

An apparent!}^ sinking orb, 
And the last long shades of the evening 

Fall o'er the works of the Lord. 

The tide commences its labor 

At this parting hour of the day, 

Its plashing is like the music 

Of some cherished and beautiful lay. 

The silence is sadly pathetic. 

And the sea crulLs skimmine the waves 



io6 MELANGE. 

Seem like celestial seraphs 
Watching o'er watery graves. 

The hour is so placid and soothing 
I would it ever could stay, 

But the earth is sadly kissing 
The dying god of day. 
i88y. 



PADDY'S NOON. 

In an old Irish shanty down in the lane 
With many a crack in the old window pane ; 
The good wife sat mending the clothes of her 

babe, 
And right near the door stood the pick and the 

spade. 

'Twas the noon hour for dinner and Paddy was 

home ; 
He had lit a fresh pipe and sat down alone 
As happy an Irishman as ever could be 
He seemed as he smoked 'neath the tall elm 

tree. 

I chanced to be passing and lingered to talk. 
Said he, " Misther Davis are'e takin' a walk ? " 
I replied I was taking a breath of fresh air 
For a sharp headache, I had more than my 
share. 

" Now Iv'e a foine cure for pains in the head," 
Paddy with a twinkle solemnly said ; 



MELANGE. 107 

I asked what it was my soul full of hope ; 
He said, " Its a round necktie made of hemp 
rope." 

Then gleefully laughing at his own pyn, 
And acting as if a great favor he had done ; 
He said, " Misther Davis I'm as happy a man 
A§ is sittin' roight now on your free country's 
land. 

For my wife and the babe are filled full of health, 
And I'm happier now than if I had wealth ; " 
Said I " Paddy, tell me a story of your own Irish 

wit, 
It will ease up my headache and cure me a bit." 

He said, "Misther Davis the ground hog wan's 

noo, 
And if ye don't moind I'll spring it on you. 
It happened in Oireland on a bright summer's 

day, 
(There's moighty few ground hogs over that 

way.) 

And me father was plowin' a bit of rough 

ground, 
When he heard a slight noise and on lookin' 

around 
He seed one of thim animals feedin' on grass, 
And the chance for some fun he couldn't let 

pass. 



loS MELANGE. 

He said " Paddy hold thim horses, and ye'll see 

some fun.' 
Of coorse I obeyed him, as I always had done. 
He hunted and huuited, and at last found the 

hole 
Where the groundhog did live and up to it 

sthole. 

Thin over the hole he sphread nice his vest, 
I didn't laugh out for I thought it wouldn't be 

best. 
Then he said ' Paddy, that's a foine scheme; 
Dang it boy! stop your laughin' and hold 

tighter that team.' 

Ye know that he thought the ground hog would 

stop 
At the vest, and he on it would have the dead 

dhrop. 
So he jumped at the baste and struck with a 

pole. 
But he missed it and it run in its hole. 

Said I ' father, bye, bye to the ground hog, he 

has left you alone. 
' Yes I know Paddy and my vest has gone with 

him home. 
And with it twilve dollars in my old pocket 

book.' 
Och, will I ever forget the old man's sad look. 

He said, ' Here ye rascal get me the pick, 
Get along ye spalpeen, and hurry back quick.' 



MELANGE. rcg 

Then he dug up the ground without much to say, 
At last found his money, but was mad all the 
day. 

But there's my wife callin', I'm a-comin' Nell, 
No, bedad I ain't, there goes the workin' man's 

bell. 
Well Misther Davis to see old Oireland again I'll 

try, 
i\nd if once more I can see that green Isle I'm 

ready to die. 



TO MLSS 



Your heart is as cold, my lady, 

As the polar regions of Mars, 
But your eyes, somehow, my lady, 

Glisten like Heavenly stars. 

Your charms, we'll allow, are artistic ; 

Your character truly is chaste, 
Your bearing divinely majestic, 

Though your heart is a barren cold waste. 

I know I caught cold in your presence, 
I do not say from the winds of your heart, 

Still this, lady, is my true inference — 

They would wither with cold, Cupid's dart. 

Beware of the lonely sad ending 

That must come unto hearts like yours. 

Study, Oh study the blending 

Of love with your heart's icy shores ! 
November, i8yy. 



ro MELANGE, 

THE EXILE'S FATE. 
In a mine in damned Siberia, 

Slaved a Russian, weak and old, 
Ne'er a place existed drearier 

Than where he worked, midst damp and 
cold. 

'Round a quiet, cosy, country hearth, 

In a distant cottage home, 
Dwelt children, with souls full of mirth,' 

And their mother, sad and lone. 

A soldier, was their brother — 

A soldier, 'way from home ; 
No lad could ere be bolder, 

And in war he brightly shone. 

But an exile was their father, 

In Siberia's foulest cave. 
Nor did his keeper bother 

For his wants, while there a slave. 

And when he sick with fever grew, 

His brutal master said : 
"Curse him, his hours on earth are few, 

'Twere better he were dead." 

"He was banished here, our Captain read. 

For helping men escape. 
And I never doubted what he said — < 

See this, his awful fate." 

"Tis frightful, this black fever, 
'Tis torturing, that is true — 



MELANGE. 

Stay ! Here's a cup of water, 

It needs must cool him through." 

In a few days, the prisoner, so nearly 
Free from Russia's thrall, 

Had once more, infirm. and wearily, 
To drag the exile's chain and ball. 

Once his guards he overpowered, 
And a dash for liberty made. 

But the other soldiers on him fired, 
So, by their Captain, bade. 

But they missed him, and the chase, 

It grew exciting hot, 
And they overtook him in the race— ^ 

He was sentenced to be shot. 

Next morning, all was silent 
When the ofKicer led him out, 

Yet he wore no air, defiant. 
As he sadly looked about. 

Though, when he beheld the man 
Who was to seal his doom. 

His features grew more pale and wan 
When he saw it was his son ! 

The hope he felt after that shock 

He quickly cast aside, 
And stood as motionless as rock, 

Which, to his son, implied 

That he was ready to be killed, 
And not afraid to die. 



12 MELANGE. 

His God, this end of life, had willed. 
And his courage now did try. 

The boy, like an aspen leaf, then shook, 
As he gazed on his father, old, 

Then a comrade's hand, he gently took, 
But his touch was icy cold. 

The father, seeing that his boy 
Was trembling for his sake, 

Put on a look of calmest joy ; 
Then the silence <jJid he break: 

"Shoot, and do your duty, lad, 
'Tis no more than right you do ; 

Don't stand there looking weak and sad, 
You are a soldier, true." 

The boy lifted, then, his rifle, 

And aimed with tear-dimmed eye. 

Then, a sob, he tried to stifle, 

As he fired, and saw his father die, 

A dagger he drew from 'neath his vest, 

A dagger, glittering bright. 
And plunged it in his own true breast. 

Dying 'fore the soldiers' sight. 

They laid them in the same, grave, 

The father and the son ; 
And in another world they have, 

A happier life begun. 
November, i88y. 



MELANGE. r 

STANZAS. 

• 

We strolled down the path of the roses 

In the sybilic splendor of night, 
Where the fragrance of summer reposes, 

And all is in beauty bedight. 
And we talked of fair gardens enchanted — 

Where were they ? Ah, no matter where ; 
For in our minds they were painted, 

And I thought none could with her compare. 

The melodious rill in the woodland 

Reflected her image and mine, 
(But now she reclines in the Goodland, 

By a rill that is far more divine), 
And often I stroll down beside it, 

How sadly sounds its refrain; 
So sadly I cannot abide it 

Since she is from the spot ta'en. 

When the soft air fanned her gold tresses 

On her neck dishevel'd they fell, 
And the roses upturned their sweet faces, 

As if their love they would tell ; 
When her musical voice sweetly sounded, 

In that night so celestial fair, 
It seemed that an angel responded, 

And I felt none could with her compare. 

For thou wert the happiest in life, love, 
'Tis only the dead who are blest. 

Thou hast left this land of all strife, love 
And entered the one of all rest; 



1 14 MELANGE. 

And the plumes of the roses are falling, 
And the rill sadly runs like a tear, 

And the birds are to thee, gently calling, 
Ah ! I know noi|e can with thee compare. 



ALONE. 



The darkest night in silence pushed 

Away the brightest day 
That ere had dawned at)d sweetly hushed, 

To sleep the hours of May. 

And on that darkling funeral night, 

There was a pictured clime, 
To which my soul took winged flight, 

To while away the time. 

Methought I lived upon an isle 

Far distant in the sea 
With one who loved me all the while. 

And 'told that love to me. 

And all alone with that fair maid 

Upon that floating isle 
I lounged beneath a cooling shade 

While she'd my soul beguile. 

We talked of tales of love the while, 
With hearts both light and free, 

While sweet alone upon that isle 
Far distant in the sea. 

She was the " seeming paragon " 
Of her fair and gentle sex ; 



MELANGE. 115 

A kingdom was the isle whereon 
I was the seeming rex. 

But then a stronger hand than mine, 

With fa^ more cause to own, 
Claimed her, and gave to me a sign 

That I was left alone. 

The darkest night in silence pushed 

Away the brightest day 
That ere had dawned and sweetly hushed. 

To sleep the hours of May. ^ 

Ah ! thus it is when souls are bright, 

Inevitably will fall 
The shades, as 'twere, of sorrows night, 

And cast gloom over all. 



THE LOVE FLOWER. 

TO MISS. 

The reception is over 

At last I am home, 
And now I discover 

While sitting alone 
The rose that you wore 

And handed to me 
When we stepped to the door, 

And I parted from thee. 

Here with my cigar 

And ensconced in a gown 
At this solemn hour 



MELANGE. 

I sit wearily down 
Near the fire that is leaping 

High in the grate, 
What care I for sleeping 

Though the^hour is quite late. 

My eyes I now close, 

Yet, not to sleep ; 
And I still hold the rose 

Which you bade me keep, 
And I hear the sweet measure 

We tripped to to-night. 
Wouid life were all leisure, 

Would life were all light. 

Sweet perfumes arise 

And fill all the room. 
And I open my eyes 

See the rose in full bloom ; 
Is our love now I wonder 

In full bloom like this rose ? 
On the question I ponder 

While my eyes dreamily close. 

Again I open my eyes, 

See a stem in my hand, 
No more perfumes arise, 

For, " Like the leaves on the Strand," 
Are the leaves of the rose 

Strewn 'round on the floor, 
Which too plainly shows 

It can bloom nevermore. 



melanc;e. 117 

And the leaves of that love-flower 

Lie there at my feet, 
The plumes of that love-flower 

That once looked so sweet 
Is love of duration ? 

I dreamily say, 
Or is't like this love-flower. 

And blooms but a day ? 

We'll see in the future, 

Ah, Sylvia bright, 
If love's of duration 

Excuse me , good night. 

February i^, 1888. 



